


Wolf Blood

by Zeear1



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, BAMF Robb Stark, Blood and Gore, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Canon Rewrite, Daenerys Targaryen Deserved Better, Direwolves and dragons - Freeform, Enemies to Friends, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Loneliness, Mysterious Powers, One-Man Crusade, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Revenge, Robb Stark Deserved Better, Robb Stark is a Gift, Romance, Slow Burn, Stark Family Reunion(s) (ASoIaF), The King in The North, The Long Night, The Prince That Was Promised, Werewolf(-ish) Robb Stark, very slow
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-28
Updated: 2020-07-18
Packaged: 2020-09-28 11:14:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 54,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20425046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zeear1/pseuds/Zeear1
Summary: Unable to defeat Robb Stark on the battlefield, Tywin Lannister decides to play dirty and organizes the Young Wolf's assassination, at his own uncle's wedding. But there's something Tywin doesn't know: that moniker - the Young Wolf - might be more fitting than anyone thought.Having escaped the Red Wedding by somehow tapping into a mysterious, beastly power, Robb Stark now has to fend for himself in enemy territory, alone, wounded and confused. What has happened to him? What is this power flowing through his veins? Can he control it?And most importantly, what does he do now?





	1. The Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone :)
> 
> This is my first GoT fanfiction, and the first one I post here on Ao3, so be kind with me. I haven't read any of the books and only ever seen the show, so I will only be following the TV canon.
> 
> Robb Stark was - and still is - my favourite character. He definitely deserved much better than he got, so here is a fix-it for him. And for Daenerys, because she was my OTHER favourite character and she ALSO deserved much better than she got. But she won't come into play for quite a while, so I hope you'll bear with me until then '^^.
> 
> Without further ado, enjoy the story!

_"The most dangerous creation of any society is the man who has nothing to lose."_

**The Twins**

“The King in the North arises!”

Walder Frey's mocking, slimy voice came muffled to his ears, the words causing fury to grow deep in his belly, but it was still overshadowed by the desperation and helplessness. All his men had just been slaughtered, and his wife lay dying a few feet in front of him, and he was helpless to avoid any of it.

Both his shoulders burned in pain, as did his right leg, the bolts from the crossbows still embedded deep in his tendons, as he finally reached Talisa's supine form, laying a hand on her belly. He felt the blood stain his hand, his sleeve, his _soul_. The blood of his wife, and his son.

The woman of his life and his unborn child.

Robb Stark took them in with teary eyes, helpless and broken. Talisa looked up at him one last time, with the same fear and helplessness in her eyes that he was sure was reflected in his own, before exhaling a long breath and finally going still under his hand, her desperate eyes becoming forever unseeing.

It was in that moment that the King barely, distantly realized something. That fury that was growing inside him, that he had pushed aside at first, was something he had never felt before.

In that moment, Robb could not think rationally. If he could, he would have seen it: it was normal to feel anger at what had just been done to him and his family, but this was different. It was not like when he had received the news of Father's execution, or when he had been informed of Theon's betrayal.

He heard his mother plead to Lord Frey. He raised his head and saw Roose Bolton come up behind her and slit her throat.

And when he watched her die, as he saw his loving mother drop to the floor dead like the woman he loved and the child he would now never meet, that fury grew even more. It grew exponentially.

This _thing_, this abject feeling that was coiling inside him, in his every muscle, was eclipsing everything else. The disgust, the betrayal, the desperation, the helplessness. All these feelings were presently threatening to crush him, and yet...

And yet, this unyelding, furious rage was slowly making all of them seem completely inconsequential.

He fully realized it as he slowly, shakily got to his feet. He realized it as he watched Roose Bolton, walking away from the corpse of his mother, and slowly making his way to him.

He fully realized it as his hands started trembling, as his blurry vision suddenly cleared despite the tears in his eyes.

As his heart started beating faster than humanly possible. As his jaw and fists clenched with more force than any human could muster.

As a menacing, beastly growl rumbled deep in the pit of his stomach.

As this brutal, all-encompassing fury suddenly morphed into an unwavering will to_ fight back._

No, this feeling, it was not human. It was something else entirely.

This was a higher grade of rage. Something stronger, fiercer...

Something feral.

Something inhuman.

Roose Bolton was finally there. He put a hand on his shoulder, almost in a show of mocking affection, brushing the crossbow bolt protruding from underneath his collarbone. In his other hand, the dagger with which he had just taken Mother's life.

The coil sprung. That wild thing inside him exploded. And he snapped.

Robb Stark was no more.

“The Lannisters send their reg-”

The Bolton traitor never finished that sentence. The Young Wolf grabbed his wrist with impossible strenght. The crunch of breaking bones and the incredulous, pained scream that followed only fueling him more.

Robb... or whatever he was, followed with a punch to the face of his traitorous bannerman. Roose's jaw, left cheekbone and neck shattered upon impact, and his head was nearly torn from his body.

The spectacle had left everybody stunned speechless. Frey and Bolton men alike were transfixed, gaping in disbelief as a livid, heaving Robb Stark looked down at his victim's last dying spasms with a terrifying, beastly glare, still holding him by his broken wrist and prying off the dagger that was supposed to kill him with his other hand. Lord Bolton's neck was bent and partially ripped open by the sheer force of impact alone, blood pouring out from the gaping wound. The Young Wolf's teeth were gnashing together, and a guttural growl was still exiting his mouth.

A wolf's growl.

Lothar Frey was the first to recover: “W-What are you doing, you morons!? Don't just stand there! Kill him!” he shouted, suddenly running towards his father to get him to safety.

His voice shook a few of his men, who lunged for their weapons. They were nowhere near fast enough.

With an almighty jump, the King in the North shot almost twenty feet in the air, landing in a smooth, lithe move on the balustrade where Frey crossbowmen had initiated their abject betrayal. They only had the time to look at him in horror as he started slaughtering them, using both Roose Bolton's dagger and his own, bare hands. The last two were frantically trying to reload their crossbows, but could only scream as the King in the North literally butchered them.

All the men on the balustrade had been killed in less than ten seconds. But that had been enough for Lothar Frey.

As the Young Wolf looked down, he saw the man usher his father out of a lateral exit, before disappearing himself in the opening and slamming the door close behind it.

Robb was not reasoning. He knew, intellectually, that those two men who had just fled the room were the organizer of this betrayal and the man who had physically killed his wife and child, but in that moment, he didn't care. For in that moment, Robb Stark was not simply a betrayed man out for vengeance. In that moment, Robb Stark was an apex predator.

In that moment, all that mattered was the taste of blood in his mouth. The instinct to kill every single one of the men left in that room.

_Kill them! All of them!_

He was about to jump down to give chase to the two preys who had just escaped, when one more crossbow bolt swished past him, embedding itself in the wall behind him. Robb crouched, poised and ready for another attack, and saw a crossbowman down in the hall. Several more men were entering the room as well. Robb’s mouth distorted in a predatory smirk.

_More preys._

He let out a bloodcurdling roar, as he once again jumped down to the dining hall to meet the men face to face. What followed was a dance of blood and death that made all the battles he had fought before pale in comparison.

_Kill them all!_

The men who had betrayed him fell left and right. Some tried to come at him with swords or knives or axes, others tried to stay back and shoot arrows at him. None of them stood a chance. He slaughtered them all.

_Kill. Kill! KILL!_

***

Arya felt like her heart was stuck in her throat. She could barely breathe.

The Freys had turned on Robb. This wasn't a wedding feast, it was a trap!

_No... Robb..._

She had to help him. She couldn't lose Robb too!

The moment she had seen the first Frey man stab Robb's soldier, initiating the massacre, she had wiggled free of the Hound's hold and dropped down from his horse. He had tried to grab her but he hadn't been fast enough.

She had paid no mind to try and stay hidden. Thankfully, the darkness and the chaos surrounding her had made her go unnoticed.

She reached the outer wall and hid behind it, peering over the side. There was a small stable in front of her. The doors were moving, as if being pounded from the inside, and she heard barking and growling.

Grey Wind. He was trapped inside that kennel.

She moved to reach him, but three Freys armed with crossbows came from her left. They surrounded the kennel, aiming their weapons.

_No... Leave him alone..._

“Hey! You three!”

The three Frey soldiers turned to their left. Arya couldn't see who had just yelled, but it came from the direction of the main entrance to the tower.

“We'll deal with that dog later, the Young Wolf is escaping! With me, now!”

The three looked at each other for a moment, confused and incredulous, before they finally moved away from the kennel. Grey Wind was still barking his head off.

_Thank the gods..._

Arya didn't even have time to exhale in relief. A strong hand grabbed her right arm.

“What the fuck do you think you're doing!?” the Hound hissed, glaring her down.

“My brother's there! We have to help him!” Arya exclaimed.

“Your brother's fucked, kid! We have to leave!” the Hound replied.

“No! I won't leave my brother alone! Let me go!”

“Ssssh!” the Hound shushed, “Lower your voice, dammit! They'll see us!”

“We have to help my brother!” Arya insisted, starting to thrash madly against his grip and not lowering her voice at all, “We have to help Grey Wind!”

“Who or what the fuck is Grey Wind!?” the Hound queried, still in a shushing tone.

“My brother's direwolf!” Arya said, “He's in there! They are going to kill him!” she added, indicating the kennel.

The hound looked in the direction the little girl was pointing. The doors of the kennel were shuddering as if a small storm was trapped inside it.

He pursed his lips and looked around. There were no Freys in the immediate vicinity.

And he did like dogs.

“Stay here and be quiet,” he ordered, before moving to the kennel. He drew his sword and after checking one last time that nobody would see him, hacked the lock clean off the doors in a single blow.

The doors exploded outwards, and the biggest canine he had ever seen almost knocked him down as he raced out of the kennel and towards the main tower. It was gone in seconds, and immediately, he could hear the screams coming from inside the castle.

Arya joined him a moment later.

“I told you to stay put!” he protested.

“I’m not staying put! I have to help my brother!”

She hadn't even finished the sentence that at least twenty more Freys were entering the tower from the same door that massive dog had just disappeared behind. All around them, Stark banners were aflame, and Stark soldiers were being slaughtered. It didn't take a genius to understand that the girl's brother was beyond helping.

“We can't do anything. We have to go,” he declared, grabbing her by the arm once again.

“I’m not abandoning my brother! He needs my help!” Arya screeched, again thrashing against his grip and trying once more to wiggle free.

Sandor Clegane was many things. A patient man was not one of them.

If the girl kept shouting at the top of her lungs and flailing like a cat with its tail on fire, someone was bound to notice them. He acted fast and whacked her in the back of the head, making her lose consciousness. He then quickly carried her back to his cart and rode off.

Robb Stark was dead. He was sure of it.

_I'll find someone else to ransom the girl to. Pity though,_ he thought,_ I would have liked for the Young Wolf to kick Joffrey's arse..._

***

They were more than he could handle. He didn't know what was happening to him, he could barely _think_, but he knew he couldn't keep going. He wanted to, but he couldn't.

Maybe it was his military training resurfacing at least a little under the feral instincts that had overcome him almost entirely. Maybe his rational self wasn't completely lost. But he knew he had to escape.

The biting pain in his shoulders and leg was getting sharper and sharper the more he fought. And he was starting to run short of breath.

A Frey soldier swung his sword a little too close for comfort, missing his throat by just an inch, and there were two more behind him. But right in that moment, Grey Wind appeared behind them, out of nowhere.

The soldier closer to the entrance didn't even have the time to scream as Robb's direwolf tore his head clean off with his lethal maw. Robb made good use of the distraction, stabbing the soldier closer to him with the dagger and kicking the other one in the chest, hard enough to shatter his ribcage. He died slowly and painfully, coughing up blood as his lungs, punctured by his destroyed ribs, filled with blood. But Robb didn't pay him any mind.

There was a window on the left side of the room. It was right above the river.

Shouts were coming from the hall. More men were arriving.

He looked at his direwolf, and it looked up at him, an agreement made with just their eyes.

Both ran towards the window and jumped, one after the other. Two splashes were heard, but in the dark night, no one could see anything floating in the water, being carried away by the river flow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what happened to Robb?
> 
> Well, House Stark's sigil is a direwolf. Not a regular wolf, but an ancient, almost mystical beast, kind of like dragons. Now, if Dany and other Targaryens are fireproof, like the dragon on their banner... who's to say some Starks haven't inherited a few properties from their sigil's animal over the course of the years as well?
> 
> And there you have it. Robb is a werewolf. Well, not an actual werewolf, he doesn't physically transform into a wolf on a full moon, but seeing his whole family be slaughtered before his eyes sent him into a state of such savage rage that it triggered him, and made him "transform" for the first time. Now, he is basically a direwolf in a human body. It will be explained better in the next chapter, but it was obviously quite a nasty surprise for the Freys and Boltons... and definitely a setback for Tywin Lannister.
> 
> What is the Lord of Casterly Rock going to do now? Find out in the next chapter!


	2. Alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tywin receives news that the King in the North has escaped his trap. He is less than impressed with the Freys. Meanwhile, Robb is in a very dark place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I feel like I should warn you: in this chapter, Robb comes very close to his breaking point. If you're triggered by attempted suicide, skip this and wait for chapter 3. It's Game of Thrones, so you're probably used to this sort of things, but... yeah. Read at your own discretion.

**King's Landing**

Tywin Lannister hit the table with his open hand in an annoyed snap. “Son of a whore,” he seethed. He crumpled the small parchment in his hands furiously, as if it had personally offended him.

Those two cunts, Bolton and Frey, had failed. Robb Stark had escaped them.

At his side, his son looked pensive: “Does it really matter?” asked Jaime, not sounding particularly bothered, “The Stark forces have been annihilated. The Young Wolf may have escaped, but he can't do much without an army, can he?”

Tywin scoffed and shook his head. Jaime always was the stupidest of all the Lannisters. He might have just come out of a very trying ordeal, having even lost his hand in the process, but this lack of attention to the bigger picture bothered Tywin.

And annoyed him.

“It doesn't matter what he can or can't do,” the Lannister patriarch replied, “If word of all this gets out, how do you think the other Noble Houses will react? We will look like the incompetent fools who couldn't kill one man at a dinner table. Walder Frey broke guest rights in order to kill him, Roose Bolton stabbed him in the back in order to kill him, and still this persistent, insubordinate boy escapes? Every time he draws breath, he is mocking us!” he ranted through gritted teeth.

“Wasn't it you who told me that the Lion does not concern himself with the opinion of the sheeps? It's done. Robb Stark might still be alive, but he is defeated. He has to see that, and if he doesn't, he is a fool who will eventually run to his death. Honestly, I'm more interested in how he managed to escape. If the Freys and Boltons are _that_ incompetent, we need to ask ourselves if we really want them as allies...”

Tywin sighed. Jaime had a point about that. The report he had received said Robb Stark had been ‘growling like a wolf and fighting with a strength no human could possibly wield'. A bunch of malarkey, no doubt, but he did kill Roose Bolton, apparently. Tywin couldn’t overlook and dismiss this; he had to clean up this mess somehow.

And to do that, he wanted to hear from the source.

He addressed one of his attendants, standing by the door: “Send word to Walder Frey to be ready for my arrival,” he ordered, “I am departing for the Twins in an hour. I want to have words with him.”

The attendant nodded and left at once. Jaime looked on as his father rose from his seat and made to leave as well.

“I will put down the Young Wolf personally if I have to," his father declared, "He has made fools of us long enough. I will end this once and for all.”

***

**The Riverlands**

Robb had let the stream carry him for quite a distance, holding onto Grey Wind to stay afloat.

He was completely exhausted. He could barely keep his eyes open, much less swim, so he had just propped himself on Grey Wind's back, hugging his loyal companion and trusting him to keep the both of them afloat. That weird, terrifying power that had pervaded him seemed all but gone, evaporating out of him not long after he had stopped fighting, and leaving him emotionally and physically spent.

It was almost dawn when Grey Wind finally dragged them both out of the river in an area where a small wood reached the riverbank, Robb still unconscious and sprawled on top of him.

He was a good wolf. He knew they needed to hide, and there were less chances of being found in a forest.

When he finally woke, a couple of hours later, Robb seemed to have fully come back to himself. Even though he desperately wished he hadn't.

He was crying. The pain from the bolts still stuck in his shoulders and leg was nothing compared to the utter magnitude and finality of his failure.

Rickard Karstark had called him ‘The King who lost the North', but he was wrong. Robb hadn't just lost the North, he had lost _everything_. Everything was destroyed. Everyone was dead.

The fear in Talisa's eyes as she exhaled her last breath would haunt him forever. And his mother... the way she had dropped to the ground like a puppet with its strings cut...

Robb couldn’t even give his family proper burials. His father, his mother, his brothers, his wife and his unborn child, all dead to betrayal. Arya was likely gone too, and Sansa...

Gods, poor Sansa.

How much more could she take? How much longer could his gentle, sweet little sister survive before that snivelling cunt Joffrey either broke her spirit entirely or simply executed her on a whim like he had Father?

What had they done to deserve all this? Why had all these tragedies befallen them? Hadn't they suffered enough?

But Robb knew the answer to that. A partial answer at least. He might not be at fault for Father, Sansa and Arya, but everyone else...

He should have never married Talisa. He loved her, oh, he loved her so much, but he should have known that he was the head of an army going into war. He should have known she would be exposed, that his enemies would target _her_ to strike _him_. Even not counting the pact with Walder Frey, he had practically sentenced her to death himself. If he had truly wanted her to be safe, he should have let her go. He should have sent her away.

Mother had tried to warn him. She had told him of the repercussions, of the consequences of marrying the woman he loved when he was betrothed to another. He hadn't listened, and now...

Now she was dead as well. How could he even look Sansa in the eyes ever again when he was the one responsible for the death of their mother?

And Bran and Rickon. He should have turned back and headed for Winterfell the moment he got word of Theon’s betrayal. Maybe he could have saved them. Maybe he could have been there for his little brothers. With their father gone, they would have needed him to protect them. But he hadn't been there, and now they were dead.

He was the cause of all this. He was the reason his family had been slaughtered.

He didn't deserve to be alive when everybody else was dead.

He slowly pulled himself up in a kneeling position, his eyes falling on the dagger that he had tucked in his belt. The dagger Roose Bolton had used to kill Mother.

His trembling hand went to it and slowly took it out. He looked at it as if it was hypnotic.

It would be so easy. He could end it all, here and now.

He lifted the blade to his eyes. Would he do it? Could he?

He slowly grabbed it with both hands, the blade pointing backwards towards his chest, the tip brushing against the front of his tunic...

His hands were trembling. He tried to will them to steady, but he couldn't. Was he that much of a coward that he couldn't even face the consequences of his failure!?

_Do it! Show that you can at least own up to your mistakes!_

He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, trying to find the courage. But the moment his eyes closed, he heard a sad, whining sound.

His eyes opened again to see Grey Wind right in front of him, whining and looking at him with sad, pleading eyes. The wolf then put one of his paws on top of his hands, trying to push them downwards.

He was still there for him. Grey Wind was always there for him.

Robb's hands were still trembling as he slowly dropped the knife, his body wracked by sobs of despair as his loyal wolf moved to lick his face. He just shook his head crying in utter defeat, and threw his arms around the direwolf's neck, clutching his still wet fur and holding him as if his very life depended on it.

“I'm sorry,” he muttered, “I'm so sorry...”

A long time passed before he could calm himself. All the time, he held onto Grey Wind, his steady presence slowly centering him. The wolf just sat there, unmoving, letting his master hold him, still whining a little. maybe he needed to feel his presence as much as Robb did his.

Then, he suddenly remembered. This was not the first time he had felt such despair.

Back when his father had been executed, he had needed his mother to set him straight. To stop him from ruining his sword by hacking at that tree. Now, he had needed Grey Wind to stop him from doing something infinitely more stupid: taking his own life.

However, this time at least he didn't need to be reminded of what his priorities should be.

His mother had told him: “We need to get the girls back,” she had said, “and then we will kill them all.”

She had been right. Robb couldn't kill himself now. He couldn't take the coward's way out, not when Sansa was still in the clutches of the Lannisters. His little brothers were dead, and Arya was missing, probably already dead as well, but Sansa was still alive. And she needed him.

And the rest of his family... Did they not deserve justice? If he took his own life now, who would ever see it delivered?

He had one last chance to prove he was not a complete failure. If he took the easy way out now, it meant the Lannisters had won.

_No. Never!_

He could not be that selfish. He could not end his sufferings when he could still try and salvage what little was left of his family and his honor.

He still had a purpose. And he would see it through.

Yes, he had lost almost everything. But any man who had lost everything always had one thing that was his for the taking, if he was willing to fight for it: vengeance.

And Robb? Robb had _two_ things to fight for.

Sansa first. Vengeance, _immediately_ afterwards.

***

The fire was lit and burning. This would hurt, but he knew the pain was well deserved, after all.

He grabbed the bolt in his right shoulder with both hands, and pulled. The pain was excruciating as it started to dislodge itself, but Robb clenched his teeth and kept pulling.

When it finally came off, Robb couldn't hold a pained whimper. He took three deep breaths as he pulled his tunic aside, before grabbing Roose Bolton's dagger from where he had left it with the blade in the fire. He took a steadying breath and pressed the smoldering tip against the wound.

Cauterizing the wound hurt even worse than pulling the bolt out. Robb dropped the dirk almost immediately, hunching down on himself and blinking the white dots from his vision.

Repeating the operation on his leg was a little easier. Thankfully the bolt there was embedded less deeply, and even cauterizing the wound didn't hurt as much. But these first two were the easy ones.

He looked at his left shoulder. The second bolt had hit him in the back and had pierced his shoulder all the way through, the tip protruding from just under his collarbone.

He was not looking forward to removing that one. He almost wished he could leave it there, but he knew he couldn't.

Pulling it out from the back wasn't an option, but he couldn't pull it from the front in one piece either without the fletchings getting caught. He had to break it off.

He reached behind his shoulder with his right hand and grabbed it, taking a deep breath. He yanked the back of the arrow upwards, breaking it off. His shoulder screamed in pain as the stem was jostled inside his tendons, and once again he almost felt his consciousness slip for the shock.

At least, the rest was easy enough. Once the fletchings had been broken off, the rest of the bolt came out smoothly from the front, more so than the one in his right shoulder, without the tip ripping into his flesh. Cauterizing the wound was a bit more difficult, due to having to reach behind his shoulder to burn the entry hole, but he managed.

At the end of the ordeal, Robb was exhausted. He figured he could shut his eyes for a bit.

It was almost noon when he roused again. He was still dazed and his shoulders still hurt, especially the left one, though not as much as before.

Now that he had calmed down a bit, he could think more clearly about the night before. Yet the more he thought, the more confused he felt.

What had happened to him?

He didn't know if it was a curse or what else. But, thinking about it... He had once felt something similar already.

It had been before all this had started. Before the Lannisters, before the betrayals, before the war. Back then, he had thought it had been just a stupid dream.

He had dreamt he was Grey Wind. He was hungry, hunting down some preys in the woods outside Winterfell. He had felt the thirst for blood, the absolute power that came from the knowledge that he was infinitely stronger than his prey. That it stood no chance of challenging him or escaping him. It was exilarating, but also terrifying, to wield that unstoppable power and at the same time have so little restrain.

And now, the night before, behind all that rage and desperation... behind the crushing weight of his complete and utter failure at being a good King, at winning the war, at protecting the people he loved... behind all that, he had felt exactly the same.

Father had said more than once, when looking at his youngest daughter, that Arya was so wild because she had ‘Wolf Blood'.

Could that have been more than jesting? Could that be what had happened to him?

_Wolf Blood..._

His mind went around in circles for about another hour before he decided that, all things considered, it was not that important.

He didn't know if it was a curse, but he was going to make the most of it. If the gods had given him this power, he was going to use it.

And with extreme prejudice.

***

**The Twins**

“He was a fury, I tell you! It was like staring at the Stranger himself! He was completely unstoppable!” Lothar Frey whined, earning the umpteenth eye-roll from Tywin Lannister.

“It’s true, Lannister!” his father, Walder Frey, insisted as he noticed Tywin's reaction: “You saw Bolton's body! He almost took his head off with a single punch! He looked like he could crush us all under his boot!”

“Yes, yes. So Robb Stark suddenly became exceptionally strong at the blink of an eye. I don't believe it for a second, but I understood that simple concept the first time you said it,” Tywin replied, cutting off another of their delirious, fevered rants: “What I want to know is how he managed to evade all of your men and escape.”

“How do you think!?” Walder bellowed hysterically, throwing his hands in the air: “By _butchering_ all the men in his way and then running off before the rest of them even knew what had happened!”

“You mean by butchering a bunch of incompetent pussies and running off before the rest of them woke up,” Tywin drawled.

Before the two Freys could protest, he raised his hand: “I will hear no more of it," he said, his tone commanding, "you have disappointed me, Frey. I gave you a simple task, and you shit the bed. And now, I am the one who has to clean up your mess. I should have known that if I wanted this done properly I should have seen to it myself," he said, rising from his chair.

Both freys were speechless. Tywin shot them one last scathing glare: "You destroyed Robb Stark's army at least, so our agreement still stands. But pray to the Old Gods and the New that I find the Young Wolf before he finds you. Because if he does, I won't send a single man to protect you.”

And with that, he turned on his heels and left, leaving the two Freys to brown their pants. Outside, the guards were waiting, his attendands already bringing his steed.

What a bunch of horseshit. These incompetent fools had probably started the attack on the Starks the moment the King in the North had excused himself to take a piss, allowing him to escape. Roose Bolton could have been killed by anyone. Maybe Greatjon Umber, he was said to be pretty strong. And then these idiots had cooked up the story of the unbeatable Young Wolf descending from the heavens to rain the wrath of the gods upon them to cover up for their incompetence.

No matter. Robb Stark was now alone, wounded and on the run. And he was going to make sure he would not run very far.

Tywin eyed the massive greatsword strapped to the side of his mount.

Ice. The Stark's ancestral sword.

Tywin had intended to reforge it for his own House once the Young Wolf was defeated. It just wasn't right that those Stark ragamuffins had a Valyrian Steel sword as a heirloom when the glorious House Lannister didn't.

But the recent events had convinced him to put that plan on hold. That sword would serve one more purpose.

Ned Stark's head had fallen to that sword. It was just fitting that his firstborn's head would fall to it as well.

The Lannister patriarch smirked as he mounted his horse, already savoring the anticipation.

The manhunt had begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Robb still hasn't been able to make heads or tails of what happened to him. How could he? Unlike Bran, he doesn't have a 'guide' like Jojen Reed to explain him what's going on. But he's looked within himself, and he has found a reason to keep fighting. For now, that's all that matters.


	3. The Hunter and the Hunted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb is hiding in the woods of the Riverlands, but Tywin has reached the Twins and is ready to hunt him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, there you have it. With this chapter, Robb's revenge on the Lannisters begins.

**The Riverlands**

Robb sat by the river, dunking his tattered tunic in the water before pulling it out and wringing it. He let out a sigh as he stood, hanging his tunic to dry on the branch of a nearby tree.

It had been nine days since the attack at the Twins. Since he had lost his mother, his wife, his son and his entire army.

He had chosen to stay hidden in the woods of the Riverlands for the time being, at least until his wounds could properly heal. By now he no longer felt any pain in his leg anymore, and even his left shoulder didn't hurt as badly, despite the wound in that one being a through-and-through, but the right one still bothered him. He had tried doing a few push-ups a few times, to build up some strength in his shoulders, but the right one couldn't hold very long.

Still, longer than before he got the wounds in the first place.

When he had first regained consciousness after escaping the Twins, he had felt weaker than ever. It had seemed that that inhuman power that had allowed him to escape was gone like it had never been there. In the following days however, as he slowly recovered, he realized that it was indeed still inside him. That beastly strenght was still simmering under his skin. He could feel it... but he didn't seem able to use it.

In the past nine days, he and Grey Wind had had to hunt to feed themselves. Or rather, Grey Wind had done the hunting, and Robb had just ran after him, struggling to keep up.

He could feel that he was running slightly faster than before. It also took longer for him to tire and he felt more alert, as if his senses had been sharpened. But he didn't feel the overwhelming power he had wielded at the Twins.

It was probably due to both his wounds and his mental state. He had been so enraged and devastated at the wedding, that he had completely ignored the pain from his injuries, but now that he had calmed himself he no longer had that luxury. His shoulders and leg were not yet healed, especially his right shoulder, and he still hadn't recovered all his energy. Still, he was getting a little better every day, and now he was definitely stronger and faster than nine days ago.

Which left him thinking about his next move. In truth, he didn't know what to do next.

Even with his newfound power he was still one man against an army, his only backup being Grey Wind. And he was pretty scarcely armed too: he had Roose Bolton's dagger and two of the three crossbow bolts he had pulled out of his body, having had to break the third one in half... but no crossbow.

He couldn't exactly fight a war with a direwolf, a knife and two arrows. He had to-

A sound to his left brought him out of his musings. A noise of twigs and leaves being disturbed, trampled and snapped.

_Steps... Someone is here..._

He grabbed the dagger and hid behind the nearest tree, trying to move as quietly as possible. His muscles were coiled and he was ready to fight. The noise was getting louder, closer... until he could finally see who it was.

He deflated with a sigh, and his shoulders hunched as he relaxed and smiled.

Grey Wind trotted up to him, holding a small, dead boar in his mouth, that he dropped at Robb's feet. Their next meal.

“What would I do without you?” Robb praised, smiling at his direwolf, who gave a happy bark in response.

Robb grinned as he petted the wolf's head. He then set to prepare a fire, as Grey Wind sat there, slowly wagging his tail.

***

Lunch was a quiet affair. Robb skinned and cooked two of the little boar's legs as Grey Wind devoured much of the rest. Master and wolf ate in companionable silence. Despite everything that had happened to him, and despite the sharp ache still clutching his heart for all that he had lost, Robb felt calm. As if for a moment, he could pretend everything was right in the world.

But that moment of tranquillity didn't last very long. Grey Wind was the first to notice a distant noise, his ears turning as he raised his head from his meal. Then Robb heard it too.

He quickly pushed some dirt on the already dying fire, estinguishing it, and went to grab his tunic and weapons. Tucking the knife in his belt and the two crossbow bolts one in his sleeve and one in his boot, he tried to focus on the noise he was hearing.

He had hoped it to be just some animal wandering close to the river to drink, but he quickly realized that wasn't the case. What he was hearing were heavy steps... but also human voices.

He moved to hide behind a bush, Grey Wind at his side. It wasn't long before he could see them: foot soldiers. His eyes bulged as he immediately recognized the gold and crimson of their armors.

_Lannister men!_

He lowered himself even more behind the bush. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but he knew full well why they were here.

Chancing another glance over the bush he saw that there were five of them heading his way. They had found his little camp and were examining the extinguished fire and the remains of the boar.

If they left now, they would report back to their commanders, and then Robb would have the whole Lannister army on his tail. He could not allow that.

He whispered something in Grey Wind's ear before moving away. As he came out from behind the bush, the five soldiers saw him and immediately drew their swords: “You! Stop right there!” one shouted.

Robb obliged. The five soldiers apparently recognized him, looking at each other for a moment as they approached, circling him. The one who had spoken earlier took a couple of steps towards him: “Well, look at that. Seems like it's our lucky day, chaps. We caught Robb Stark,” he said, smiling, as Robb raised his hands.

Another soldier laughed, “And we got him alive too! Lord Tywin will love this,“ he jeered, as the one who had approached him threateningly pointed his blade to the side of Robb's neck: “Now, you'd better behave and come quietly, Young Wolf-”

He didn't even get to finish his sentence: Robb moved as fast as lightning. With one hand he caught the soldier’s wrist, pushing the sword away as he grabbed his dagger with the other, slashing the man's throat open right before throwing the knife at one of the other four. His aim was perfect, catching the soldier right in his left eye and killing him instantly.

The remaining three charged as Robb grabbed the sword from the first one he had killed. They probably thought they could take him three on one, but they hadn't considered that Robb wasn't alone either.

Grey Wind pounced on one of them, going for the hand that was holding the sword and tearing it off above the wrist in a single bite. The man’s scream was accompanied by the clanging of swords as Robb met the fourth and fifth soldiers head on.

As the man Grey Wind had mutilated fell to the ground, screaming like mad and clutching the stump of his arm in pain, Robb was more than holding his own against the last two. He sliced one on the shoulder as Grey Wind finished his job tearing the third man's throat out with his lethal fangs.

When Robb slashed again, cutting deep into the fourth soldier's leg, the fifth suddenly had a change of heart and started running away. He didn't get very far, as Grey Wind took off in pursuit.

Robb pressed on against his opponent and finally managed to sink his sword in the man's abdomen, right under his armor. The man looked at him as blood started spilling from his mouth.

Robb yanked his sword back and the man fell on his knees. In that moment, the other one started screaming in the distance: Grey Wind had caught up to him. The doomed soldier in front of Robb turned his head to the direction the screams were coming from, his eyes wide and his face etched in pain and fear.

“You know, you should count yourself lucky,” Robb told him, "I'll make it much less painful than my wolf would,” he said, before swinging the sword to finish him off.

The screams from the last soldier died off a few seconds later. Robb looked at the mess of bodies around him while he caught his breath, before cursing to himself.

It was no coincidence. A Lannister patrol in the middle of the wood only meant one thing: there were more around. And they were close.

As Grey Wind returned, his maw and snout red with blood, Robb knew he didn't have much time.

“We have to go,” he breathed to his wolf.

***

“Lord Tywin!” The head of the Lannisters turned at the voice calling him. A soldier came running to his side, breathless: “One of our patrols hasn't returned,” the soldier reported, “we found their bodies in the woods...”

Tywin smirked: “So we know where he's hiding,” he sneered to himself before addressing one of his lieutenants: “Take thirty of your men and follow me! This is the Young Wolf's last stand, the treachery of the Starks ends today!” he commanded.

The captain nodded and turned his horse towards the camp. Five minutes later, Tywin Lannister was ready for the final chase.

***

Robb was running as fast as he could. He was still wounded, and he could never take the whole Lannister army on his own. Grey Wind was at his side, running only fast enough to keep up with him. Robb wished he didn't do that, that he would just leave him behind and save himself. He could hear the horses galloping and the knights shouting behind him. This was probably the end.

After a few more minutes of running, Robb abruptly stopped when he saw something right in front of him.

_More soldiers!_

They were going in the wrong direction, moving away from him, but Robb knew that they couldn't be alone.

He was surrounded. There was nowhere to go.

He turned to Grey Wind: “You have to hide,” he told him urgently. The wolf just stared up at him.

“Go!” Robb insisted, “It's me that they want! You have to save yourself!”

When Grey Wind still didn't move, Robb just gave him a push. It wasn't harsh, but it definitely conveyed the urgency: “Please! I don't want your blood on my hands too! You have to run away!” Robb hissed again.

Still undecided, Grey Wind took a few more seconds before finally turning and leaving. He wasn't even running as fast as before, and he even turned to look at Robb a couple of times, but at least he was leaving.

_I'm sorry, Grey Wind..._

He took off in the opposite direction, but he didn't go very far. Three knights were right behind him. He kept running as long as he could, until another knight arrived from his right and finally intercepted him, slamming his boot into the side of Robb's head.

Robb crashed into the ground hard, his ears ringing and his vision foggy. The sword he had taken from one of the Lannisters he had killed clattered to the ground, out of reach. He shook his head to gather his wits, but he could barely realize he was being pulled up by his arms.

“Lord Tywin! We got him!” one of the soldiers exclaimed.

Robb blinked, not sure if he had heard right or if the tremendous blow to his head was making him imagine things. _Lord Tywin?_

But, as another man appeared in front of him and dismounted from his horse, clad in a black and golden armor with a red sash across his chest, he saw that he hadn't imagined it.

Robb had never met him before, but his bannermen had described Tywin Lannister to him in detail. And even if they hadn't, Robb would have recognized him anyway: the way he carried himself, like a man used to command and to have his orders executed instantly and without question. The cunning, ruthless glint in his eyes, eyes of a seasoned general, but also of a man without honor, ready to do anything to get his way.

Robb could only growl as two soldiers manhandled him on his knees, holding him by the arms. Tywin Lannister leisurely came to stand in front of him with that smug expression that Robb wanted to punch off his face.

“Well well well. The Young Wolf in the flesh. We finally meet in person,” he drawled. Robb just stared up at him as Tywin bowed slightly, looking him dead in the eye: “You caused me quite a lot of trouble, you know?”

“Glad to hear that,” Robb spat.

Tywin scoffed, rising to his full height again: “You should have stayed home and kept playing with the snow. War is not a game, boy...”

“You killed my father...” Robb growled.

_“Joffrey_ killed your father,” Tywin corrected, “which was well within his rights. He is the King.”

“He is just a bastard,” Robb replied, “a whiny little cunt your son and daughter cursed the whole Seven Kingdoms with.”

Tywin's expression darkened: “I see that Stannis' slander still runs rampant,” he gritted, evidently angered by Robb's accusation: “No matter. We'll deal with him next, after we're finished here.”

Saying that, Tywin moved back to his horse to retrieve something. Robb’s eyes bulged as Tywin unsheated Ice from its scabbard.

“Recognize it?” Tywin sneered, “We used it to cut your father's head off... It seems only fitting to use it to cut your head off too...”

Robb thrashed a little against the two soldiers restraining him, but they managed to hold him down. He knew the Lannisters were disgusting fuckers, but insulting his father to the point of executing him with his own sword!?

Robb felt rage pooling deep in his stomach. A type of rage that by now, he had learned to recognize.

“You know, when I got the news that Walder Frey had only managed to kill your mother and your wife, but you had escaped, I was pretty annoyed... You were a real thorn in my side, and even after plotting your assassination and taking out your whole army, you continued to be one...”

Robb could feel it. Every word Tywin Lannister was pronouncing was making his blood boil. His _Wolf Blood._

“But all things considered, I'm glad I have the opportunity to kill you myself,” Tywin continued, “I have to give it to you, you were a worthy adversary. Winning every single battle you fought, making all your opponents look like idiots in the process? You would have made a fine Lannister, I could have used a general like you. Shame you were born in the wrong family...” he said, looking at the Valyrian steel greatsword in his hands.

Robb looked around. There were about twenty or thirty men there, all smug and laughing. All with their guards down as he felt that unstoppable power rise in him.

Thirty men? He could take them with his eyes closed.

“Oh well,” Tywin shrugged, “I guess I'll at least have the satisfaction of ending you instead. Do you have any last words, Young Wolf?” he asked, that smug smile still on his face.

Robb was breathing heavily, barely containing himself. He was going to enjoy this.

“Actually, yes,” he breathed, his voice now noticeably lower. A few soldiers noticed the change, and looked at him confusedly.

“Tywin Lannister,” Robb growled, looking the older man dead in the eye: “For your crimes against my family and my kingdom... I, Robb of House Stark, Lord of Winterfell and King in the North, sentence you to die.”

For a moment, everyone was silent. All the Lannisters were frowning, either confused or angered at Robb's audacity. Robb himself was smirking up at Tywin.

It took just a few seconds for the Lannister patriarch to explode in a fit of laughter, followed by all of his men. Robb let them laugh for a few seconds before he attacked.

He yanked his arms out of the grip of the soldiers with enough strength that they both stumbled, tripping on their own feet. By the time they fell to the ground, Robb had already retrieved the crossbow bolt that he had kept hidden in his boot, jamming it into the back of the neck of the one to his right.

Nobody was laughing anymore. Robb got to his feet and stomped hard on the head of the other prostrated soldier, breaking his neck as well.

The next to attack him was Tywin himself, swinging Ice at him, but the ancestral greatsword was too big for the old general to be fast enough with it. Robb easily dodged the first three swings, and at the fourth, grabbed the other crossbow bolt from his sleeve and stabbed Tywin in the stomach with it, using enough force to pierce through his armor. He then pulled the bolt out and stabbed him again, and again, and again, until the stem broke in two, the tip still embedded in Tywin's abdomen.

The old Lannister patriarch fell to his knees, dropping the Stark sword. Robb snatched it right before all the other soldiers charged.

It was over in less than three minutes. Now armed with his forefathers' greatsword, Robb was simply too fast and too strong for any of them. The Lannisters fell one after the other like the Freys had nine days before, Ice's Valyrian steel blade cutting through their armors like scissors through paper. Robb was swinging the massive greatsword with enough force that even the soldiers' swords were being cut in half when they tried to parry his attacks. Some of Tywin's men were on horses, but even they inevitably fell dead when they tried to charge at him.

When there were only two left, both on horses, it was clear that the ‘invincible wolf' story that the Freys had recounted was no mere story at all. Tywin himself, gravely wounded, could hardly believe his own eyes as, on his knees and powerless to do anything, he looked incredulously at the Young Wolf mowing through all his men as if they were insects.

The last two soldiers turned their horses and tried to run away, but Robb was having none of it. He had once again fallen victim to his instincts. And his instincts demanded blood.

_You won't get away from me! I'll kill you all!_

Grabbing a sword from a dead soldier on the ground, he threw it like a dagger at one of the two fleeing soldier. His aim was once again flawless, as the sword embedded itself right through the back of the man's helmet. The other soldier screamed as he watched his comrade fall off his horse with a blade protruding from where his nose should have been.

Robb took another discarded sword from the ground and was about to repeat the trick, but the last soldier was hit by a massive animal pouncing on him and his horse both.

Grey Wind had returned to his master.

Horse and man fell to the ground, screaming and thrashing as the direwolf mauled the knight to death. As usual, it didn't take long.

Robb watched the gruesome display breathing heavily, trying to calm himself and repress his instincts after this murderous rampage. He could feel it: the same immense power he had felt at the Twins. Only now, he felt slightly more in control.

The Wolf Blood was burning through his veins like fire, yet his mind was still his own. He was every bit as strong, fast and brutally savage as he had been at the wedding... but he had _wanted_ to be. When he fought, it wasn't just instincts anymore. His training, his mind, were more in it. He was still _him_ this time, even though the thirst for blood remained almost unquenchable.

He rubbed his right shoulder. The wound there was the most grievous one, and he had jostled it quite a lot, making it sore and raw. But the pain was grounding him, helping him calm down in a sense.

In time, he was going to learn to control this power, he was sure of it.

But for now...

“I thought I told you to run away,” Robb reproached as Grey Wind slowly walked up to him and sat at his side, having finished butchering the final Lannister soldier. There wasn't any harshness in the reproach however, and Grey Wind just barked twice, looking up at his master.

Robb smiled, until he heard a pained noise come from behind him.

He turned: Tywin Lannister was still there, on his knees, holding his bleeding abdomen with both hands. Grey Wind growled, but Robb petted him on the head, getting him to heel.

Tywin Lannister was _his_ to finish.

“H-how?” Tywin gritted in pain, his eyes bulged in incredulity and denial, as if he couldn't quite grasp his complete defeat and imminent death: “What... are you...?” he asked as blood started to trickle down his mouth.

Robb came to stand to his right side. He held Ice with both hands, vertically, the tip to the ground. Tywin looked at him expectantly, as if demanding for an answer.

Robb looked back. The answer he gave was not a real answer, and yet it made Tywin's blood freeze in his veins.

“Yes, now the rains weep o'er his hall, and not a soul to hear,” Robb whispered, barely loud enough for Tywin to hear.

Tywin's eyes became even wider.

The last lines of ‘The Rains of Castamere’.

That song that recounted his absolute victory over House Reyne. That same song, that he had insisted the Freys played at the wedding of Edmure Tully before slaughtering the Starks.

Tywin knew exactly what it meant. What Robb Stark was telling him.

He had completely wiped out House Reyne. He had tried to do the same with House Stark, but he had failed. And now, Tywin Lannister realized that it would be this Stark that would wipe out his House, not the other way around. Robb Stark would stop at nothing until he got revenge for his family.

Tywin had always valued his family and House above everything else. But as Robb Stark raised his family's ancestral sword, ready to end his life, Tywin realized he had created a monster. And he never stood a chance against that monster.

Cersei, Jaime and Joffrey didn't stand a chance either.

As Ice was finally brought down on his neck, liberating his head from his body, Tywin knew.

His House was doomed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I'm about to go on a nerd-rant about Valyrian swords, so if you don't care, skip this note entirely XD.
> 
> So, Ice: you people have probably already noticed watching the show, but in case you haven't: IT'S FRIGGIN' BIG!
> 
> A while ago, I did a bit of research and found a site about the swords shown in the GoT TV series (I lost the link, sorry), and Ice was the biggest one listed there: the blade alone is 42 inches long from tip to shoulder, which is in line with your typical medieval greatsword, but it's also exceptionally wide: 3,5 inches. With the hilt, Ice's total lenght is a whopping 57,5 inches: hold it vertically, and it's almost as tall as Arya!
> 
> By comparison, Jon Snow's Longclaw - not a greatsword like Ice, but still a two-handed, Valyrian steel bastardsword (fitting, isn't it? XD) - has a total lenght of 'just' 45 inches from tip to pommel, with a 35-inch blade. in the show, the only other Valyrian greatsword that comes close to Ice in dimensions is Heartsbane, the ancestral sword of House Tarly, that Sam steals from Randyll and later gives to Jorah Mormont: 55 inches overall. The blade is 40,5 inches long, almost on par with Ice, but it's a lot thinner: 2,5 inches to Ice's 3,5.
> 
> So, long story short: Ice is a massive beast of a sword, of enormous size and - even though Valyrian steel is supposed to be lighter than regular steel - enormous weight. Later in the show, Arya tells Jon that Longclaw is too heavy for her, and she's a young, trained assassin in peak physical conditions. So there's no way an old man like Tywin Lannister, even if he is battle-trained, can wield this monster fast enough to be a threat to Robb, especially in his powered up state. Tywin should have dropped Ice and used a normal sword as soon as Robb reacted... but he would have lost anyway XD.
> 
> Ok, nerdy stuff over, now you can breathe again :P


	4. The Young Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Increasingly worrying news reach King's Landing. As the Small Council does its best to contain the situation, the King doesn't cope well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. I'm sorry for the delay updating this chapter. I'll try to post a new chapter every week, but I can't promise I'll religiously stick to the schedule, RL is hectic right now.

**King's Landing - the Red Keep  
**

The Small Council meetings were becoming more and more dreadful. Tyrion Lannister was not looking forward to today's meeting at all.

After his father's death, the command of the Lannister army had gone to his uncle Kevan, while the title of Hand of the King had definitively fallen onto his shoulders... at least for the time being. Cersei hated him, but she was not stupid. She was not so arrogant to not recognize his merits in the Battle of Blackwater Bay, and probably thought that Tyrion wouldn't outlive his usefulness until Robb Stark was finally dealt with.

Three months had passed since then. Since some scouts had found their father's body in the woods near the Twins with his head cut off, along with about thirty Lannister soldiers butchered like fodder. It had been quite surprising for Tyrion how little the death of his father had touched him, but Kevan had immediately been tasked by an absolutely livid and devastated Cersei to do what Tywin had been incapable to do: end the Young Wolf once and for all.

Unfortunately, Kevan was no closer to completing his task. In fact, he was _failing._

For the last three months, Robb Stark had been running rampant all over the Riverlands, killing their soldiers a few at a time. He picked small scout patrols, ambushed them and destroyed them. Form time to time, he left a few survivors, who always reported back to their superiors, their eyes wide with fear, that they had seen Death in the face..

It felt like the Young Wolf was mocking them: the soldiers in the capital were japing that he was having more success now that he was alone, than when he still had his armies.

And every time he ‘mocked' them, Joffrey became a little more unstable.

So unstable, in fact, that his wedding to Margaery Tyrell had to be postponed indefinitely: everybody was refusing to say it out loud, but the young King was in no condition to make a public appearance. The smallest shadow made him jump in fear, his eyes were perpetually haunted and his hands were constantly fidgeting and trembling.

Tyrion took a deep breath before entering the Small Council chambers. He immediately wished he didn't.

Joffrey was pacing the room nervously. His features were schooled in a furious glare, but he couldn't hide the glint of fear in his eyes, and the way his hands were fidgeting betrayed him entirely. He was pale and his eyes were rimmed by black circles from the lack of sleep.

The paranoia was slowly eating away at his health. It was as if Robb Stark himself was perpetually breathing down his neck, slowly killing him with pure, simple, raw fear.

Jaime was standing guard near the far wall. His face betrayed no emotions, but Tyrion could see in his eyes that he was deeply bothered by the whole situation.

Kevan and Cersei sat stone-faced at one side of the table. Pycelle was sat next to Varys on the other side, staring in the distance, but when he entered, he raised his eyes and leveled him with a hateful glare.

“Well?” Tyrion asked taking his seat at the head of the table, unsure of why this meeting had been called.

Joffrey erupted: “I've had enough of this!” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at him. He was clearly trying to sound intimidating, but it was his voice that was pathetically broken in fear.

Tyrion opened his mouth to reply, but he was interrupted before he could even speak.

“Show him,” ordered Cersei to Pycelle.

The old maester handed Tyrion a small raven message. Tyrion went to retrieve it, but Pycelle dropped the parchment the moment he extended his hand. Shooting the old man a nasty glare, Tyrion retrieved the message from the floor, ignoring the old man’s spluttering of a fake apology.

After reading the message, Tyrion sighed: “He's struck again.”

Kevan hung his head: “It's the eleventh patrol in three months,” he sighed in defeat.

“You were given the task of finding Robb Stark and stopping him once and for all!” Joffrey vented, this time pointing his accusing - but still trembling - finger at Kevan, “Instead, that Northern rat has been killing my soldiers left and right for three months now!”

“I'm legitimately surprised by this sudden concern for the lives of your soldiers, Your Grace,” Tyrion replied snidely, “But I wouldn't use the term ‘rat' for Robb Stark. ‘Wolf' seems more appropriate.”

“You almost sound like you admire him, Lord Hand,” Pycelle insinuated.

Tyrion simply shrugged: “I’m merely laying out the facts. It’s not a mystery that the Young Wolf has become almost a legend in these last months, in the North and the South alike...”

Joffrey scoffed, shaking his head: “A legend?” he muttered, “He is but an imposter!”

“An imposter he may be,” Varys interjected, “but that is not how the smallfolk see him. The people know about his attempted assassination, they know that your grandfather and Walder Frey broke guest rights to try and kill him. Now my little birds hear the people whisper about his deeds every day. They see him as a divine being coming to bring justice and free them from tyranny.”

Tyrion looked Joffrey dead in the eye: _“Your_ tyranny,” he added ominously.

The King took a threatening step towards where Tyrion was seated, his left eye twitching. Before he could do anything, however, Kevan spoke:

“That is most concerning, but there is a more pressing problem,” the Army commander said. Joffrey turned to him, his eyebrows scrunching in confusion.

Kevan leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table before continuing: “So far, the Young Wolf has been concentrating his attacks in an area approximately between the Twins, Riverrun and Harrenhal. But this latest attack took place _south_ of Harrenhal, not far from the Eastern coast of the God's Eye.”

“He's moving towards the Crownlands,” Varys deducted pensively.

Joffrey's eyes bulged as all the blood drained from his face. If not for the gravity of the situation, Tyrion could have laughed: his odious nephew looked like he was undecided between shitting himself and starting to cry.

“You failure!” Joffrey finally exploded, slamming both his palms on the table and glaring at Kevan: “Robb Stark might be entering King's Landing and be on his merry way to the Red Keep right now, and you _still_ wouldn't be able to find him! I've already had to postpone my wedding for _months_ to deal with this!”

Tyrion had to refrain himself from rolling his eyes.

They hadn't postponed his wedding because they needed Joffrey to deal with Robb Stark, they had postponed his wedding because the stress was slowly killing him, and until Robb Stark was removed from the equation, that stress was not going to recede. Which was a problem, as Olenna Tyrell was growing tired of waiting.

They had told her they had needed time to properly grieve the death of Tywin. Then they had found the excuse that the King was too busy with the war effort, and even Joffrey had convinced himself of that. But the Queen of Thorns’ patience was starting to run thin.

“My King, we _had_ to reduce the scout patrols!” Kevan defended from Joffrey's accusation, “Every time one of them runs into the Young Wolf, he invariably slaughters them all!”

_“I don't care!”_ screeched Joffrey, “I don't care if he slaughters half your army! I want Robb Stark's head! I want to serve it to his sister on a platter!”

"Your Grace, Lady Sansa is your aunt by marriage," pointed out Varys.

"A joke," interjected Cersei. "Joffrey did not mean it."

“I'm not joking!" Joffrey shrieked like a spoiled child. Tyrion was half expecting him to start stomping his feet.

"No."

The King turned to Tyrion, a vein pulsating on his forehead: "What?" he hissed.

"Sansa is no longer yours to torment," the Imp said.

"I am the King. _Everyone_ is mine to torment,” Joffrey insisted, his voice still broken by fear: “You'd do well to remember that, you little monster."

"Oh, monster? Perhaps you should speak to me more softly then. Monsters are dangerous, and you already have _one_ to deal with. Surely you don't want _another_ on your hands?"

Joffrey was fuming. He looked disbelievingly around the table, as if waiting for someone to speak in defence of their King. When nobody did, his gaze turned back to Tyrion: "I can have your tongue ripped out for saying that..." he hissed.

"Let him make his threats," interjected Cersei, taking Joffrey's hand: “He is a bitter little man."

"Lord Tyion should apologize immediately," Pycelle said, ever the arse-kisser: “Unacceptable, disrespectful and in very bad taste!”

Joffrey seemed emboldened by the brown-nosing: "I am the King!” he bellowed, pointing a trembling finger at himself, “I will punish you-”

“Any man who must say ‘I am the King' is no true King.”

Joffrey went nearly apoplectic with rage as he turned to the man who had just spoken: Jaime.

“What did you say!?” the boy hissed, fuming: _“You_ of all people have the gall to speak to me that way!? After you let yourself be captured by Robb Stark? After you let some lowlives chop your hand off and just stood there doing nothing like a slack-jawed _idiot!?”_

The room fell in complete silence as the entire small council stared at the King in utter shock. Even Joffrey himself looked like he realized he had overstepped, but he and Jaime remained locked in a glare contest.

Tyrion once again broke the empasse. “The King is tired,” he said, “We should see him to his chambers.”

Cersei took it as her cue. She rose from her seat and approached her son: “Come along,” she said, locking her arm with his.

Joffrey yanked his arm free. He pointed a finger at Kevan again: “Find me Robb Stark,” he seethed, “Bring me his head, or I'll have yours.” And with that final threat, the King stomped out of the room in a huff. Cersei sighed, more than a little exhasperated: “Grand Maester,” she called, “perhaps some essence of Nightshade to help him sleep?”

Pycelle seemed reluctant: “Essence of Nightshade is a substance that should not be abused, my Queen,” he objected, “It is a very potent drug, and as of late the King-”

“As of late, it is the only thing that can help the King sleep,” Cersei interrupted, “so do what I tell you to do and fetch some essence of Nightshade.”

She didn't leave room for any reply as she followed Joffrey to his chambers. Pycelle, unable to argue further, left to do Cersei's bidding.

Left alone in the Small Council chambers, Tyrion, Varys, Jaime and Kevan shared a look of worry.

“Well,” Jaime started, going to sit himself in the chair Cersei had just vacated: “That went better than I expected.”

“Robb Stark has grown tired of butchering our men and has finally decided to come for us,” Kevan scoffed, his tone mocking, “How is that better than you expected?”

“The King could have decided to kill us all in a tantrum,” Jaime replied.

“I'm actually surprised he didn't, to be honest,” Tyrion scoffed, looking down at his hands, before raising his head and turning to the others: “So, how do we want to deal with Robb Stark?”

“If he really is heading for King's Landing, perhaps we should retire some of our troops from the Riverlands to defend the capital,” Jaime suggested.

“Perhaps we should, yes,” Kevan agreed, before shaking his head, “It's almost unbelievable. King's Landing, practically under siege by one man and his dog...”

Jaime flinched. Tyrion had little doubt he was reminiscing the last time he had spoken with their father.

Jaime had told him about it. He, too, had thought that a lone man with only his pet wolf at his side would be absolutely powerless against an entire army, and would be swiftly dealt with. Gods, how wrong he had been.

“This man and his dog have been unstoppable ever since our father came up with the great idea of trying to kill him at his uncle's wedding,” Tyrion exclaimed, "Never in history has a plan failed so badly, I don't think...”

“And never has a failed plan caused so much backlash,” added Varys.

They all knew what he was talking about. Tywin had intended for the Young Wolf to die relatively quietly, and to be quickly forgotten. He had intended to end him and his entire army in a single, crushing blow, so that everybody would forget his unbroken string of victories and only remember what happens to those who rise against House Lannister.

Instead, ever since the massacre that had come to be known as ‘The Red Wedding', people only talked about how the Old Gods and the New had found favor in the Young Wolf, allowing him to escape and aiding him in his quest for vengeance against those who had betrayed him. Robb Stark was becoming a hero, a _legend,_ in all of the Seven Kingdoms and beyond. The exact opposite of what Tywin had intended.

“The smallfolk invent a new story about Robb Stark every day,” Varys continued in his mellifluous tone: “They say he can turn into a wolf as big as a carriage, and that the spirits of all his slain men live on in him, giving him their strenght and protecting him in battle like an armor, making him impossible to kill or defeat...”

“An immortal, giant wolf who is protected by the Gods. And wants us dead,” Tyrion surmised, “It makes you wonder how much of that is an old wives tale and how much is founded in reality.”

“Is there any silver lining in all of this?” Kevan asked with a defeated tone.

“Naturalizing Roose Bolton's bastard and naming him Warden of the North has helped,” Varys said, “Ramsay Snow- oh, I'm sorry, Ramsay _Bolton,_ clearly has no love lost for the Starks. He is being very efficient in repressing any sympathizer the Young Wolf has left back at home... Queen Cersei has had a very good idea.”

“Can't wait to see how _that_ very good idea backfires on us,” Tyrion scoffed.

Nobody answered. Jaime seemed to want to protest, but he couldn't. Even he realized that when Cersei convinced Joffrey to naturalize the Bolton bastard and give him the North, she gave Robb Stark yet another reason to want Joffrey dead. As if he didn’t have plenty of those already.

“Redirect your troops in the Riverlands back to King's Landing,” Tyrion finally ordered, addressing Kevan, “Coordinate with the City Watch, I will personally let Lord Commander Bronn know of the additional soldiers. Hopefully Robb Stark will be forced to reconsider his course of action, once he sees all the troops we have amassed in the city.”

Kevan nodded. He and Varys left, and Jaime and Tyrion were left alone. Both were sat at the table, looking down at their shoes. For a long moment, neither spoke.

“You know what the worst part about this whole situation is?” Tyrion asked, finally breaking the silence. Jaime looked up at him.

Tyrion raised his head and locked his eyes with his older brother's: “We are doing our best to defend a tormentor from his victims.”

Jaime lowered his gaze again.

He didn't reply.

***

The door was smashed inwards, shattering in a thousand pieces. Joffrey was startled awake, and was immediately paralyzed by utter terror as a gigantic direwolf jumped up on his bed, straddling him and blocking him under the covers, preventing him from escaping.

Not that he needed to: Joffrey was too scared to even scream. He just stared up at the massive beast with his eyes wide, his pupils dilated in bone-chilling fear.

And the wolf stared back.

Its eyes, murderous and vengeful, were icy blue like the coldest of winters. Its fur was darker than the blackest void, and its snow white teeth, bared in a murderous snarl, were as big as knives and as sharp as razors. Its growl was sending a chill down Joffrey's spine, as if reverberating against his very soul.

The King uttered some incomprehensible whine, trembling like a leaf from head to toe. He finally managed to find his voice and let out a shrieking scream right as the demonic beast attacked. The wolf's lethal fangs clamped down on Joffrey's head, crushing it like a nut under a mallet.

Joffrey awoke screaming, his eyes frantically scanning the room only to find everything in perfect order. The sound of his heart banging in his ears almost drowned out the one of the door slamming open.

“Your Grace! Is everything alright!?”

Joffrey was startled by the sudden voice and let out another scared yelp, only to find Ser Meryn at the door, his hand tight on the hilt of his sword.

A nightmare. It had been just a stupid night terror.

Joffrey took a few deep breaths to calm himself. He gritted his teeth, cursing under his breath as he held a hand to his heart, willing it to slow down.

Ser Meryn was approaching: “Your grace-”

“Where's Sansa!?” Joffrey suddenly screeched, blocking Meryn dead in his path: “Bring her to me! _Now!”_

***

Tyrion ran as fast as his legs could carry him, Shae hot on his tail.

He had been in his office, having just returned from having a drink with Jaime in the Small Council chambers, when Shae had burst through the door, telling him the Kingsguard had showed up all of a sudden and all but dragged Sansa away from her chambers.

Tyrion knew immediately what that meant. His moronic nephew was currently giving the Young Wolf one more reason to fight to the death.

Joffrey's death, that was.

He burst into his chambers like a battering ram, ready to demand the Kingsguards to bring him to his wife. But his voice died in his throat as he realized he was already too late.

Sansa was there. She was laying in the bed, curled in a ball, trembling and sobbing quietly. She had her back to him, and Tyrion could only stare in shock and fury at the ugly, black bruises and angry red whip marks he could see through the rips in her ruined dress.

He lowered his head, thanking all the gods that Joffrey wasn't there in that moment. Tyrion was sure he would have killed him where he stood.

He clenched his fists, and addressed Shae: “Fetch a maester,” he murmured simply.

Shae quickly left the room, and Tyrion didn't know what to do next. His feet were rooted to the floor, unable to move, unable to get close to the abused girl sobbing in his bed, unable to do anything. each new sob that came out of her was making him more furious, at Joffrey, at Meryn Trant, at himself for not having been there.

This was the price the Young Wolf was unknowingly making his sister pay for his defiance. As Joffrey’s paranoia grew, so did his viciousness. And Sansa would not be able to withstand that viciousness for much longer.

Tyrion slowly lowered his head, trying with all his might to tune out the horrible, anguished sobs his poor wife was trying and failing to choke out. He turned around and walked out of the room.

He knew what he had to do.

**The Crownlands**

He had decided to keep away from the Kingsroad. The cart he had managed to steal from the last Lannister contingent he had taken out was big enough to hide Grey Wind in it, but he didn't want to take any chances.

As of now, he was heading for Rosby. As soon as he got there, he would turn south and head for King's Landing.

He had become an expert in avoiding the bigger Lannister batallions. The key was to keep a random pattern, never continuing in the same direction after a clash with a scout patrol, but still slowly working his way in the general direction of the capital.

That was where the real problems would start, he knew. He had to find a way to infiltrate the capital unseen, and that was easier said than done.

He had been thinking about a way for a while now, and still hadn't come up with any viable solution.

He would have to find one, and soon. Sansa could not wait for him forever. Who knew what atrocities Joffrey was putting her through.

He reached behind him, clutching Ice's hilt where the sword lay in the bed of the cart, beside Grey Wind.

_Please hold on, sister. I'm coming._

Still preoccupied with trying to find a way to smuggle himself and Grey Wind inside King’s Landing, Robb never noticed the richly dressed, hooded figure about three hundred yards behind him, following his cart on a black horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Robb is still miles away, and Joffrey is already shitting himself... and taking out his frustrations on Sansa. Yeah, Robb will be less than pleased when he finds out, will he?


	5. Good Companies and Bad Acquaintances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Tyrion works to get Sansa away from Joffrey, Robb runs into some peculiar people.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, not entirely happy with this chapter, but I fear if I tweak it more I'm just gonna make it worse. On the plus side, it is the longest chapter so far! Enjoy!

**King's Landing**

Tyrion knew this solution was far from ideal, but his options were limited. He had to make do with what he had, and pray that he wasn't making a terrible mistake.

He took a deep breath as Petyr Baelish entered his office and sat at the table across form him like he owned the place.

“Lord Hand,” the brothelkeeper greeted, “I've been told you requested my help. It's an honor for me, to help the second most powerful man of the Realm.”

Tyrion had to refrain himself from scrunching his nose at how fake the pleasantries sounded. Baelish knew full well Tyrion didn't trust him as far as he could throw him, but he decided to let it pass. Time was of the essence here.

“Yes, the Imp replied, “I need a favour that not many can grant me. I need to get my wife out of the capital and transferred to Casterly Rock.”

Baelish’s face immediately distended in a calculating smirk.

“Lady Sansa is extremely valuable for what she represents,” he considered, “With the Young Wolf on the loose she makes for some hefty leverage and a great eventual bargaining chip... And if Robb Stark were to fall, she would become the key to the North...”

“Which is precisely why she needs to be moved,” Tyrion replied. Baelish gave him a side-eyed look.

“I suppose it will be no news to you that the Young Wolf seems to be heading towards King's Landing as we speak?” Tyrion asked.

Baelish simply nodded: “Aye, I have heard rumors. You do not presume he can defeat all of the soldiers stationed in the city on his own, do you?”

“No. But I don't want my wife to be an unintended casualty,” Tyrion answered, “The Young Wolf is resorceful. Should he make it to his sister, she could end up in harm's way. I love my wife, and I want to keep her safe.”

It was a half truth.

Baelish repositioned himself slightly on his chair: “Forgive me, my Lord, but why me?” he asked, “I am hardly the only person who comes and goes from King's Landing. Wouldn't Lady Sansa be safer with some royal guards as an escort?”

“Like I said, Robb Stark is resourceful. He could be onto us, spying our every movement. Seeing all the soldiers retreat to the city to reinforce the garrison, what would he think of a small contingent leaving the city instead?” Tyrion asked, looking Baelish dead in the eye.

Both men knew the Hand was lying through his teeth. But Baelish seemed to allow it: “He would think it a fine target, at the very least,” he conceded.

“Exactly. So you can see why I don't want to leave this to the Kingsguard, Lord Baelish,” Tyrion replied, “and why I would also appreciate it if you could keep tight-lipped about Lady Sansa's relocation,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Baelish's eyes narrowed: “Lady Sansa is very lucky, to have a husband that looks out for her like you do,” he praised, “Does the King know about this?” he asked then, clearly testing him.

Tyrion merely smiled: “Again: the less people know about this, the better,” Tyrion replied, not really answering the question: “Robb Stark could have eyes and ears in the capital.”

“So you’re asking me to smuggle your wife out of the city, none the wiser,” Littlefinger surmised.

“Worry not, Lord Baelish. Sansa is my wife. It is in my rights as her husband to move Sansa away from the city. The secrecy is just a precaution,” the Hand reassured.

“A precaution. Of course,” Baelish parroted, clearly not buying it. But he rose from his seat with an easy smirk on his face: “Very well. Today at noon. I'll send someone to retrieve your wife,” he declared.

“Send them to me first. I want to see Sansa off myself,” Tyrion replied.

Baelish nodded, predatory smirk never leaving his face: “Have a nice day, Lord Hand.”

Tyrion nodded back: “And you, Lord Baelish.”

Littlefinger left without another word.

Tyrion leaned back in his chair. He didn't like the smirk on Baelish's face one bit.

He knew this was a bold, risky move, but he didn't have any other choice. Sansa couldn't stay in the city with Joffrey slowly but surely spiraling into madness, and he couldn't trust Varys to get her out instead of ratting him out to Cersei. He couldn't really trust Littlefinger either, but his infatuation for Catelyn Stark and his affiliation with her sister made him the best - and only - option.

Tyrion could only hope for the best.

***

“Lady Sansa!”

She jumped a little, despite herself. She hoped that at least in the godswood she would have some privacy and be safe, but she was always afraid in her heart that Joffrey would send his Kingsguards to fetch her even here.

By now she had grown almost used to the beatings and humiliations, but the fear never left. She was always scared.

She only relaxed a little when the man who had called her - most definitely _not_ Kingsguard, given his ragged clothes and rotund physique - withdrew a little at seeing her scared.

“It-it's alright,” he stumbled, holding a finger up to his lips. He stood on wobbly feet, and his eyes were droopy and unfocused.

“...You're drunk,” Sansa squeaked.

The goofy indifidual seemed to consider it before nodding: “Yes,” he confirmed, “I have good reasons to be. Once, I was a knignt, now I'm only a fool.”

Sansa raised a confused eyebrow at the revelation.

“Don't you know me?” the man asked, seeing her confusion.

Suddenly, Sansa remembered him: “Ser Dontos,” she smiled, “The King's nameday celebration... I-I'm sorry, I should have remembered-”

“Ah, I can't accept your apology. I may be a fool, but I'm a living fool, thanks to you...”

Sansa tried to downplay it: “Anyone would have done the same,” she said.

“But only you did,” Dontos argued, “I can never repay you. You gave me my life... But I can at least try to ensure you stay safe.”

Sansa smiled: “What do you mean?” she asked.

Dontos didn't answer immediately. He looked around the yard, as if to try to make sure nobody was spying on them. Then he stepped closer to her:

“Your husband sent me,” he said, his voice now considerably lower, “He wants you to be transferred to Casterly Rock. The capital is not a safe place as long as the war rages on.”

Sansa was stunned. She didn't know how to react.

Could she believe Ser Dontos? He seemed like an honest man... But what if this was yet another one of Joffrey's sick games? Or maybe the queen's? What if this was a test of loyalty?

No, she couldn't risk it. She couldn't take the chance-

“Sansa.”

She jumped once again at the new voice. She hated herself for how everything scared her, but she couldn't help it... Joffrey had made her afraid of her own shadow...

She turned, and saw Tyrion.

“M-my lord...” she started, unsure of what to say.

“I know this seems... sudden," Tyrion stopped her, "but what Ser Dontos told you is true. He will take you to safety.”

“B-but... The King...” Sansa stammered.

“The King is exactly the reason why I want you away from here, Sansa,” her husband interrupted her.

She stared at him in disbelief, but Tyrion pressed on: "Joffrey is a coward, and this war is making him more and more scared,” he said, walking up to Sansa, “and every time he gets scared, he takes it out on you as some sick revenge for your brother scaring him. I will not let him do that anymore.”

Sansa just stared into his eyes, and she could see he was telling the truth. Tyrion had always been kind to her, and he seemed to hate Joffrey almost as much as she did. It took her a long moment, but she finally nodded her assent.

Tyrion seemed relieved. He took her hand and kissed it, before looking back up at her: “Do you remember what I told you when your mother died?”

“That she would want me to carry on...” Sansa reminisced.

Those days had been terrible. When she heard the news that her mother had been assassinated and Robb was missing, Sansa had felt like dying. Like each word was a knife through her heart.

She had been devastated, but Tyrion had been there for her. He had tried his best to lift her spirits, and even if he hadn't exactly succeeded, she had appreciated the consideration, at the very least. It had made her feel like she was not alone.

He smiled and squeezed her hand: “Never forget that, Sansa. Your brother still lives. If it's true that the gods saved him to punish those who wronged him, they won't let him die until he has punished them all.”

Sansa desperately wanted to believe that. She only overheard fragments, morsels of information from some royal guards passing by. She wanted to hope, beyond all hope, that her brother would come and save her, but she knew she was just deluding herself. By now, the dreamy little girl who loved the stories of handsome princes saving beautiful princesses from the monsters had been squashed by the horrors she was enduring every single day.

She could only pray for him. Robb was the only hope she had left.

“Go with Ser Dontos, Sansa. You will be alright,” Tyrion concluded.

Sansa hesitantly nodded again, before slowly raising her head: “Can I say goodbye to Shae?” she asked timidly.

Tyrion shook his head apologetically: “There is no time, my lady. I’m sorry.”

Sansa understood. She understood that Tyrion was doing this in secret, that Joffrey was likely too be furious with him for this: "I can never thank you enough, my lord...” she said.

Tyrion just nodded once more, not saying anything. He turned and left.

Dontos offered her his hand, and she took it, letting him lead her away.

***

She hadn't expected to leave on a boat, of all things. The trip to Casterly Rock should have been done by land... and the whole thing looked all the more eerie, as the more they got away from shore, the more an impenetrable mist took hold of Blackwater Bay.

Sansa dared not ask any question, though in her head, she was growing more and more scared. What if she had made the wrong decision?

Finally, appearing from the mist like a phantom, the black shape of a two-masted ship took form, floating there with its sails raised. Dontos brought the small boat to the side of the ship, where a rope ladder was hanging overboard.

“Up you go, my lady,” he said, holding the ladder. Sansa hesitantly looked up at the ship.

“You'll be fine,” Dontos encouraged, “You're stronger than you know.”

Sansa finally took a deep breath and started to climb the ladder. As she finally reached the ship's parapet, two strong arms grabbed her and pulled her on board, making her gasp.

As she righted herself, she could finally see who had grabbed her, his hands still holding her by the shoulders.

“Lord Baelish,” she breathed.

The man had an almost relieved look on his face: “Petyr,” he corrected her, before asking: “Are you hurt, my lady?”

Sansa only shook her head timidly in denial.

“Good. _Good._ I'm sure today has been trying for you,” he said, “Rest easy. The worst is past.”

“Lord Baelish!” Dontos called from the boat, “I promised I'd get her to you safely-"

“Softly, my friend,” Baelish silenced him, holding a finger to his lips, “Voices carry over water...”

“I should get back,” Dontos continued, his voice now noticeably more hushed, “before someone thinks to look for me...”

“First you'll want your pay,” Baelish replied, “Ten thousand, was it?”

“Ten thousand, yes...” Dontos confirmed eagerly.

Baelish snapped his fingers to signal two of his men to come to him. Sansa could only stare, powerless to do anything as she watched the men come closer, carrying crossbows instead of gold.

She was rooted to the place, unable to even ask what was going on. It was over in an instant.

“Wait-" Dontos tried. But his voice was cut off as the men fired at him.

Only then, Sansa screamed.

_No! What-Why!? Why did they do that!?_

“Sssh!” Baelish shushed her, swiftly bringing a hand up and holding it firmly over her mouth, “You don't want someone to hear, do you? A thousand Goldcloaks are searching for you... And if they found you, this is all in vain!”

Sansa felt like she was about to faint. Still, she managed a weak protest: “Lord Tyrion is Hand of the King. He ordered me to be sent away...”

“Yes, yes, but do you think the King, or the Queen Regent, would have ever condoned that?” Baelish replied, “That they would have allowed him to send the Young Wolf's sister away, with your brother lurking ever closer to the city? They wanted you there, as a hostage...”

Sansa was on the verge of tears. She looked down at the boat, Dontos' dead body sprawled on its floor: “Why did you kill him?” she asked. It was so unfair...

“Because he was a drunk, and a fool,” Baelish answered, not at all remorseful, “and I don't trust drunk fools...”

“He helped me...” Sansa protested softly, “He was helping me because I saved his life,” she insisted, “He was helping Tyrion. Why did he have to die!?”

“Helped you? My Lady, he was following my orders. Every one of them. And he did it all for gold,” Littlefinger told her: “Money buys a man's silence for a time. A bolt to the heart buys it forever.”

Sansa finally managed to tear her eyes away from the gruesome spectacle: “But why did you need his silence so badly!?” she wanted to know.

“This had to be done in secret, my Lady. Joffrey and Cersei would have never relinquished a hostage as valuable as you, So Lord Tyrion and I had to act outside of the law. Now, before they find out you are missing, we will have already reached the Eyrie.”

Sansa recoiled a little: “...The Eyrie? B-but... Lord Tyrion said-"

“That you would be taken to Casterly Rock?” Baelish finished for her, “A smoke cloud, my Lady. A distraction, nothing more. Lord Tyrion couldn't be sure of who was listening...”

Sansa didn't know what to make of this.

“What did I once tell you about the Capital?” Baelish asked then, leaning on the parapet.

“...We're all liars here,” Sansa recalled, her voice barely above a whisper.

Baelish simply smiled, putting a comforting arm over her shoulders: “Come, my Lady. I know you've had a difficult day, but you're safe now. I promise you that,” he said, leading her towards the cabins: “You're safe with me. Sailing home.”

Sansa was shaken to her bones.

Could she trust Baelish? He had just reiterated that they were all liars in the Capital, right before promising her she was safe...

She was mad with worry. For herself, for Tyrion, for what Joffrey and Cersei would do... Maybe she should have insisted to stay in King's Landing. If it was true that Robb was coming there... Maybe he could have helped her escape instead.

At least, she could have trusted Robb. But now...

_Oh, Robb, where are you?_

**Rosby**

Robb was feeling nervous as he led his small carriage down the city's main road. The closer he got to the capital, the riskier it was. And the more difficult to stay hidden.

In the Riverlands, he had mostly kept to the woods, only traveling on charted roads when strictly necessary, and crossing forests when possible. It had been easy to shake eventual pursuers there. But in the Crownlands, things were different.

There simply weren't enough forests in the western part of the Crownlands to keep traveling through the wilderness, and Grey Wind wasn't exactly inconspicuous. Fortunately, he had managed to appropriate a covered carriage and a horse from the latest Lannister patrol he had encountered. They certainly weren't gonna need it anymore, after Robb was done with them. That had temporarily solved the problem of getting himself and Grey Wind closer to King's Landing... but it still left him wondering how to get _in_ King's Landing.

Robb wasn't born yesterday. He was observant, and he also knew a thing or two about troop movements. Last month, they were all moving towards the Riverlands, towards _him._ Lately though, he had watched from afar as several contingents headed back to King's Landing.

He didn't know what to think. The Lannisters retreating made sense, since his army was gone. The Riverlands could easily be held by their vassals, especially their new Frey whores, but maybe something else was about to happen? Was Stannis Baratheon back on the offensive?

The sudden growl of his stomach brought him back to the here and now. He hadn't eaten in almost two days.

Looking around and to his right, he spotted an inn.

Mayhaps he could chance a quick stop and spend some of the gold he had pilfered from all the soldiers he had killed. It would be nice to eat something without having to hunt it down first, he reasoned.

He brought the carriage to a stop to the side of the road. As he made to dismount, Grey Wind whined in the bed.

“I know, I know,” Robb soothed, turning to look at his loyal companion: “I will buy some meat for you too, alright?”

Grey Wind licked his snout a couple of times and laid down next to Ice, resting his head on his front paws.

Robb smiled fondly: “Stay here and be quiet,” he said, petting his head and covering both the wolf and the sword with a tarp.

***

After months of not eating a proper meal, even the simple meat pie with vegetables that they had served him felt heavenly, and the ale accompanying it was the proverbial cherry on top. But still, Robb was finding it really hard to relax.

He was in the Crownlands now. Miles behind enemy lines. He had to keep his guard up, at all times.

And just as he finished thinking that, someone suddenly sat at his table, right in front of him.

Robb leveled the man with a deadly glare as his survival instincts kicked into gear. He clutched Roose Bolton's dagger under his cloak as the newcomer got comfortable.

“Easy, my friend. I just want to talk. Let's not do anything inconsiderate, yes?” the weird man said, beckoning the innkeeper over.

Robb didn't like this. Who was this man? A Lannister agent? Was this an ambush? Was Grey Wind in danger?

“Another ale for my good friend,” the stranger said to the innkeeper, completely ignoring Robb's glares, “and I'll have some wine.”

“At once, m'Lord,” the innkeeper nodded subserviently, before moving away.

Robb kept glaring, coiled and ready to defend himself. But while he glared, he took a better look at this strange individual.

He was tall and well built. His olive skin and dark hair and beard looked a little foreign, as did his accent... Dornish, perhaps? His clothes were also a little exotic, especially for a place like Rosby. But it was his poise and sense of security that was keeping Robb from outright attacking him and make a run for it. He seemed perfectly in control of the situation, as if he could sense the risk and tension and was flourishing in it. It made Robb feel on the back foot, and he didn't like that.

The man leaned back in his seat: “Isn't it exciting?”

Robb merely raised an eyebrow in askance.

The man smirked: “This tension,” he explained, “This moment between you and me, where you are ready to attack me but you hold back to see if I really pose a threat, and I try to convince you that I mean no harm and only want to talk...”

_This man is crazy,_ Robb thought. But, crazy as he was, he was also interesting.

There was no point hiding the dagger any longer. The man had clearly guessed Robb had one. So he slowly raised his hand and rested it on the table, still threateningly clutching the blade: “And what if I decide to not bother sizing you up and just kill you?”

“You would regret it,” said another voice to his right.

Robb turned and saw a young woman, clad in similar garbs as the man, going to sit next to him and looking at Robb with an air of arrogance and superiority.

His eyes darted quickly around the inn, searching for more suspicious people. He noticed another woman next to the door, dressed almost exactly like the one sitting across from him at the table. Maybe there were more behind him.

“I wonder if you can take me, my sisters and my father all at once,” the woman continued, “You seem pretty good at taking out Lannister soldiers, but that's a pretty low standard...”

Now, the man seemed displeased, as if he had lost some of his tranquillity. He turned to the woman:

“Robb Stark is a King, Obara. You will treat him with the respect he deserves,” he said in a commanding tone.

Robb's eyes bulged slightly, despite himself. These people knew who he was!

The woman gave a shrug, and rose from her seat, movieng closer to the entrance where the other woman was stationed. Robb's eyes then zeroed in on the unknown man once more. If this was a game, it was not funny.

“Who are you? What do you want?” He demanded, almost seething.

The man let out a chuckle, as if he had just remembered something obvious: “Of course. Manners. I can see why you are so wary of me when I haven't even properly introduced myself. My name is Oberyn Martell, and that was my eldest daughter, Obara Sand. Forgive her rudeness, I have tried teaching her diplomacy as she grew up, but I fear I might have failed miserably.”

Robb's eyes bulged slightly.

Oberyn Martell? _That_ Oberyn Martell? The Red Viper of Dorne?

“As for what I want... well, many things, really. The first is to express my gratitude to the Young Wolf for his services,” he continued.

Now, Robb was floored. This was absurd.

This random stranger showed up out of nowhere, claimed to be one of the most powerful men in Dorne and said he had somehow rendered him a service. And he apparently knew Robb's identity. How was that possible?

In that moment, the innkeeper returned with the man's wine and another ale for him. Oberyn smiled easily at the retreating man.

Robb tried to unwind his shoulders slightly, and also leaned back in his seat. He didn't know what was going on, he had to tread very carefully: “Yes, well, you will forgive me if I keep being wary,” he seethed, keeping hold of the dagger.

“I'd be surprised if you weren't, and I apologize for the impromptu approach. I realize the circumstances are less than ideal for a first meeting, especially in your current predicament,” the man (Oberyn Martell?) shrugged, “But believe me, Robb Stark: I mean you no harm. Like I said, I am only here to talk. It's been quite riveting, hearing of your feats against the Lannisters. I am a great admirer of yours.”

Robb couldn't tell if he was mocking him or if he was sincere, but one thing was for sure: this was quite an interesting conversation. Mayhaps it was worth it to see where it lead.

He leaned back in his seat, mimicking Oberyn's posture, before stabbing his dagger into the meat pie and carving off a bite, stuffing it in his mouth with the tip of the blade. “Let's say I believe you... Prince Oberyn. You’ll understand that quite a few questions are popping up in my head...” he finally said.

Oberyn opened his arms: “Ask away, and I shall answer,” he replied enthusiastically.

“Very well,” Robb countered, “First question: how did you find me?”

Oberyn tilted his head: “Not an easy feat. You, my friend, are a very sneaky individual," he smiled, pointing at Robb with his finger: "I was on my way to King's Landing when I heard about the... incident at the Twins. Tywin Lannister had sent a formal invitation to Dorne, to discuss a potential alliance against Robert Baratheon's brothers and... well, you. When I heard of the Red Wedding, and that you had escaped and killed Tywin, my daughters and I immediately set off to find you. It took us quite a while, almost two months, but we finally tracked you south of Maidenpool. Your wolf is... difficult to miss.”

Robb stiffened. He asked the next question through gritted teeth: “Where's Grey Wind?”

Oberyn shrugged: “Where you left him, I imagine. In the bed of your cart, presumably napping.”

Robb relaxed slightly, but there was something else Oberyn had said that didn't sit well with him: “You said you had received an invitation from Tywin Lannister to join the war at his side. And you were going to King's Landing. Care to clarify?”

_“Dorne_ received an invitation, not me personally,” Oberyn replied, “For me, it would only have been a great opportunity to get some long overdue justice.”

Robb merely raised an eyebrow: “Justice?”

Oberyn's expression darkened: “My sister. Elia Martell,” he said simply.

Robb tilted his head, recalling Maester Luwin's teachings: “Rhaegar Targaryen's wife...”

“Aye. At the end of Robert's Rebellion, Gregor Clegane raped her and killed her, along with her two children, Rhaenys and Aegon. Clegane was one of Tywin Lannister's bannermen...”

“Tywin gave him the order to kill your sister and her children?” Robb asked, his shoulders relaxing ever so slightly.

“I never knew for sure, but you’ve been on the receiving end of Tywin Lannister's schemes too,” Oberyn answered: “doesn't this look like his style?”

Robb had to concede to this point. Tywin was a man who had shit for honor. It was not outside the realm of possibilities that he had ordered the slaughter of the last Targaryens simply to look good in the eyes of Robert Baratheon.

“I have dreamed of exacting justice on the Mountain and Tywin Lannister for almost twenty years,” Oberyn confessed, “And I will. The Mountain will pay for what he did to my family, But Tywin Lannister... I can settle on shaking the hand of the man who killed him,” he said solemnly, extending his hand across the table.

Robb eyed the proffered hand warily, but then hesitantly took it.

After they shook hands, Oberyn seemed to return to his carefree self: “See? Nothing nefarious,” he chirped, once again leaning back in his seat, finally taking his wine and sipping it: “I told you, we mean no harm...”

Robb finished his first ale and took the new one: “You also told me you want many things... Somehow I doubt you went through all this trouble to just shake my hand,” he considered.

“Oh, far from it,” Oberyn replied, “I also have a proposition. See, you and I both have unfinished business in King's Landing. That's where your sister is, and that's where the man I want to kill is. The difference is that I can come and go from the city whenever and however I want... and you can't. Not without ending up with the goldcloaks on your tail. But since we are going to the same place... I could grant you a safe passage. A _discreet_ passage.”

Robb couldn't believe his luck. It was almost too good to be true. Oberyn was offering to smuggle him into the city? He still didn't know if he could trust him, but when was he going to get another chance like this one?

He remained silent for a long moment, before leaning forward: “Joffrey Baratheon killed my father,” he said.

“I know,” Oberyn responded.

“I'm not going to King's Landing just to save my sister,” Robb continued.

“I guessed as much,” Oberyn countered. Then he raised his glass of wine: “To justice,” he toasted.

Robb raised his ale, and they both drank. As they put their cups down, Obara and the other woman at the door walked out of the inn, followed by two other similarly dressed figures who Robb hadn't noticed earlier. They had probably positioned themselves behind him.

They were very good at moving without anyone noticing, Robb observed.

“Oh, just one more thing,” Oberyn said, bringing Robb's attention back to him.

“Before we depart, you need a bath,” Oberyn said with a small smirk, leaning across the table and tapping his chin: “and a trim,” he added, scratching his unkempt beard.

Robb just sat there like an idiot, watching Oberyn leave with a smirk on his face.

Granted, he hand't really had the time to shave and bathe as much as he wanted in the last months, but his general state wasn't so bad... Right?

He tentatively raised an arm and sniffed his armpit.

Well... maybe Oberyn wasn't, strictly speaking, entirely wrong.

**King’s Landing **

The Goldcloaks bursted through the door like battering rams. Tyrion was startled out of his musings.

“What are you doing!?” he demanded.

“Tyrion Lannister, you are under arrest,” one of them declared.

“What!?” Tyrion squeaked, “On whose authority!?”

“Queen Cersei's.”

Tyrion was taken aback by the answer.

Was this about Sansa? Cersei couldn't do that! It was his right to send his wife out of the city if he wanted to!

As two of the guards moved to grab him, Shae got between them: “Leave him alone!” she shrieked, "Lord Tyrion is the Hand of the King!”

One of the guards simply backhanded her, sending her tumbling to the floor. Tyrion was manhandled out of his chair before he could react. He could only watch as Shae grabbed a knife and lunged for the nearest guard.

“Shae, don't!” he shouted. But it was too late.

Tyrion had never felt more powerless. It seemed as if time was moving slower than normal as he watched the inevitable happen.

The guard easily disarmed Shae, before driving her own knife in her throat.

“NOOO!” Tyrion shouted, thrashing against the two that were holding him.

This couldn't be happening! What was going on!? Why...

“Shae!” he called desperately, “SHAAAE!!”

No answer came as he was literally carried out of the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You probably guessed it, but yes, it was Baelish who betrayed Tyrion.


	6. Schemes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two people visit Tyrion in the dungeon. Brienne is given a new task, and Robb has reached his destination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are again! This chapter took a little longer to write, mostly because I was a little conflicted about how much of the canon material I wanted to fit in here. I hope you enjoy!

**King's Landing**

Two days after his arrest, Tyrion was still reeling.

Shae had still been moving as the Kingsguards dragged him away. She was supine on the floor, clawing at her throat, legs kicking weakly and eyes wide in agonizing fear, as the life slowly but inevitably faded away from her.

She was only the second woman he had ever truly loved. And she was dead. The image of her slowly dying on the floor was going to haunt him for the rest of his days.

Though it seemed that his days were numbered anyway.

He didn't know if Littlefinger had orchestrated his fall from grace on his own or if Cersei was in on it. She probably was, but in the end it didn't really matter. It was his fault. He had given Baelish an opening, and Baelish had used it.

Shae was dead now, because of him.

He already knew what would come next: either Cersei would put on some grand show of giving him a 'fair trial' while corrupting all the judges and have them sentence him to death, or Joffrey would stomp his feet, not bothering with any of that nonsense, and have him executed like he had Ned Stark.

Tyrion wasn't sure he cared either way.

Shae was dead. Soon, so would he.

And Sansa was now at the mercy of Littlefucker... By the gods, what in the world had made him think trusting Petyr Fucking Baelish was a sound plan?

Suddenly, there was a rapping at the door that brought him back to the here and now. Tyrion lifted his head as the door opened:

“Jaime... Podrick...” he breathed.

“Hello, brother,” Jaime answered with a small smile. Podrick just nodded at him, looking back through the small window in the door, and reached for his boot, fiddling with the hem.

“Apologies for the stench,” Tyrion said, attempting some levity. It fell completely flat.

“I brought you some wine, my Lord, but they took it from me,” Podrick replied, still rummaging with the hem of his boot, “They didn't find the candles though,” he continued, finally taking three candles out of his boot, before reaching for the other: “A quill, some parchment... and some hard cheese,” he finished, taking a piece of cheese out from under his cloak.

“You’re a good lad,” Tyrion said, completely devoid of enthusiasm but grateful nonetheless.

Jaime finally chimed in: “Tyrion,” he called. His brother turned his head towards him, not answering but showing he had his attention.

“You are to stand trial in a fortnight, for conspiring against the Crown...” Jaime informed him.

Tyrion scoffed: “Right. In what way is sending my wife to Casterly Rock conspiring against the Crown?” he asked.

It was Podrick who replied: “My Lord... They found the guards assigned to Lady Sansa murdered near the godswood. There are soldiers searching for her all the way from here to Casterly Rock, but there's no trace of her...”

Tyrion was not surprised. This was well played indeed.

“That cunt...” he seethed.

“What cunt?” Jaime asked, confused.

“Littlefinger,” Tyrion replied, “I was stupid enough to trust him...”

Podrick and Jaime looked at each other, not getting it. Tyrion took a deep breath: some explaining was in order.

“I may or may not have asked Lord Baelish to take Sansa away from King's Landing-"

“What!?” Jaime exploded, “So it's true? You really smuggled Sansa out of the city!?”

“No! But also yes,” Tyrion replied, “I asked Littlefinger to escort Sansa to Casterly Rock, not to make her disappear!”

“Tyrion, she was our only leverage against Robb Stark!” Jaime countered hotly, “You remember Robb Stark, right? Your brother-in-law? That... that demonic, possibly immortal wolf-man who is terrorizing and slaughtering our army, and who is hellbent on avenging his family!? That family that _we_ decimated!?”

“I remember him, yes,” Tyrion replied, his tone forced, “There's no need for the sarcasm.”

“Good,” Jaime said, “Then can you please tell me what possessed you to send away our only chance at making him sit down and talk before he guts us all!?”

“Tell me, brother, how long do you think Sansa would have lasted here in King's Landing?” was Tyrion's answer.

Jaime just looked at him, his jaw clenched. Tyrion pressed on:

“Lately, Joffrey was torturing her on a daily basis. He had Meryn Trant whip her, beat her, nearly kill her! I'm not going to describe to you the state I found her in, the day I decided to send her away from the city, but you know Joffrey, I'm sure you can make an educated guess!” he yelled. By now, he was furious: “How long do you think she would have lasted before your... _King,_ actually killed her?”

Jaime looked away, more than a little ashamed. It didn't escape to him how Tyrion had almost slipped, only saying ‘king' at the last moment.

It was true. All of this was Joffrey's fault. Joffrey had been the one to have Ned Stark's head cut off. Joffrey was the one who had tortured, ridiculed and made fun of Sansa for years now. Jaime had not been in King's Landing for a long time, imprisoned by Robb Stark practically at the very beginning of the War, but he had heard plenty about the whole thing.

Joffrey was his son. He would always love him regardless of what he had become, and he would always fight for him. But if he were in Robb Stark's shoes right now...

He had to shake his head to get rid of those thoughts. There was a bloody _war_ going on, and he had to remain concentrated. All of them did. They couldn't afford to humanize their opponents, or the war was already lost.

It was exactly the mistake Tyrion had made.

Jaime took a deep breath, trying to get back to the situation at hand: “Is there anyone who can confirm your story?” he asked.

“Dontos Hollard,” Tyrion replied, “I left Sansa with him personally-”

“He’s dead, my Lord,” Podrick interrupted.

Tyrion’s eyes widened: “What!?”

“He’s been found on a boat, adrift in the Bay, with bolts through his heart and his face,” Podrick explained.

Tyrion deflated: “Of course. Baelish covered his basis. He got rid of his man so he could never tell anyone of his plans...”

“At least it gives us a lead to find Sansa,” Jaime considered, “They left the city on a boat...”

“Unless Baelish killed Dontos before he left and then set his body on that boat to sidetrack us,” Tyrion countered.

Now it was Jaime's turn to deflate: “Yes, that's possible,” the Kingslayer sighed. Then he raised his head: “Anyone else?”

“I don't know,” Tyrion responded, “Maybe Varys, if his little birds saw anything.”

“He had a long meeting with Cersei this morning,” Jaime revealed, “I think if he's called as a witness, he will testify against you...”

Tyrion scoffed and shook his head.

Unbelievable. He thought himself intelligent, how could he have been so stupid? Now Cersei was practically holding him by the balls.

But he wasn't done yet. If Cersei thought she had already won, she had another thing coming. He was Tyrion Lannister, and he was going to fight to the end. For himself, and for Shae.

“Fetch Bronn, I have a job for him,” he told Podrick.

“I’ve already asked, my Lord. They won't let him see you,” his squire answered.

“Why not!?”

“They say he's a known cutthroat, and your close associate... He's under investigation himself,” Jaime answered in Podrick's stead.

There was a long silence after that. Tyrion was trying with all his might to think of a solution, of a way out, but it seemed like a lost cause.

Very well. The deck was stacked against him, but Tyrion had defeated worse odds before.

“Did Cersei institute a jury yet?” he asked.

“No, not yet,” Jaime answered, “Joffrey is furious, he has the Kingsguard looking everywhere for Sansa. They're turning the whole city inside out and upside down, but they haven't found anything yet, which is making Joffrey even _more_ furious... Cersei is too busy trying to get him to calm down for now.”

Tyrion nodded, deep in thought. This gave him a bit of time, but nowhere near enough to find Sansa before the trial where he would be inevitably found guilty.

Maybe, however, he could try and make sure that someone could look after her, if he couldn't.

“Podrick,” he called, “They'll be following you now.”

“Who?” Pod asked, confused.

“I don't know, _they!”_ the Imp replied hotly, “They, the ominous _they!_ The men pulling the strings, or women! Cersei, Joffrey, Littlefinger... Whenever something bad happens to me, I assume it's my sister that has a hand in it...”

Podrick seemed to recall something. Even Jaime noticed: “What is it?” he asked the squire.

Podrick furrowed his brow: “A man... I didn't know his face. They came to ask if I'd testify against you,” he said, looking at Tyrion, “Said I'd be named Ser Podrick Payne, if I told the judges you conspired with Robb Stark, to return his sister to him in exchange of a castle and lands in the North...”

Tyrion rolled his eyes: “As if Robb Stark would ever give a Lannister lands in the North,” he said, before looking up at Pod: “Ser Podrick Payne has a nice ring to it, however... What did you tell them?”

“I didn't tell them anything, my Lord...” Podrick replied, as if offended that his Lord thought he he would ever betray him for a title.

“Are you going to accept their offer?” asked Tyrion.

“...my Lord?”

“Testifying against me wasn't a suggestion,” he warned him, “They can't tempt you with honey, they'll choose something less sweet...”

“You've been good to me, my Lord-” the squire said, but Tyrion interrupted him:

“Pod... Trial's in a fortnight. They'll want an answer before that.”

“I already gave them an answer, my Lord.” Podrick said resolutely.

Tyrion squared his shoulders: “Very well. But you need to get yourself out of King's Landing before it's too late.”

Podrick looked at him in confusion as Tyrion moved to the bench where he had left the quill and parchment he had brought. He looked at Jaime in askance, but the Kingslayer shrugged his shoulders, just as confused as he was, as Tyrion scribbled something on a small piece of paper.

They looked on as Tyrion blew on the paper to dry the ink, then folded it and handed it to Podrick.

“You have to find Sansa. When you do, give her this message. She will know I sent you.”

“...my Lord-"

“I don't trust Littlefinger with Sansa’s safety. You have to find her,” Tyrion insisted. Podrick just looked at him solemnly, before nodding.

“This is farewell, Pod...” Tyrion said. Podrick leaned down and hugged him. Jaime watched them with a look of resolve on his face. When they broke apart, Tyrion noticed:

“What is that stare?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Jaime replied, “I just remembered a promise I have made...” he said cryptically, leaning down to hug Tyrion as well.

The two brothers then exchanged a long look, before Jaime left. When Podrick made to follow, Tyrion called him back:

“Pod... There has never lived a more loyal squire.”

Podrick could only nod, not trusting his voice not to break as he left.

Once outside the cell, Jaime grabbed him by an arm.

“You leave in a couple of hours,” he told him, “Wait for me at the stables. There's a person I need to talk to.”

***

Brienne had no idea why Jaime had wanted to see her. He seemed lost in thought, probably worried about his brother's upcoming trial.

When he spoke, Brienne was even more confused:

“You will depart from King's Landing immediately,” he told her, his voice leaving no room for reply. But Brienne of Tarth was not someone who was easily intimidated by that kind of tone.

“Are you giving me orders?” she asked rhetorically, “I'm not a member of the Kingsguard. I’m not a squire you can order around. My loyalty lies with Catelyn Stark-"

“Exactly,” Jaime cut her off.

Brienne gave him a sideways look: “What, are you suddenly worried for me? Afraid of what I'll answer when my allegiances are questioned?”

“No,” he replied, “I know you can defend yourself if your allegiances are questioned. I'm worried for Sansa Stark.”

That stunned Brienne into silence. Had she heard correctly?

“I swore an oath to return the Stark girls to their mother,” Jaime explained, his tone now noticeably more subdued: “Lady Stark's dead. Arya’s probably dead too, but there's still a chance to find Sansa and get her somewhere safe. My brother sent her off with Petyr Baelish to bring her to Casterly Rock, to keep her away from Joffrey's vengeful fits, hoping that Littlefinger's feelings for Catelyn Stark would be enough for him to refrain from being his usual, scheming self. But Baelish betrayed my brother and disappeared, taking Sansa with him. He's not to be trusted, especially not with Sansa's safety.”

Brienne didn't respond. She kept holding his gaze, looking into his eyes to see if he was lying, to find something that betrayed his words. But there was nothing but sincerity.

“I've got something for you,” Jaime told her after a while, walking to a mannequin covered by a silk sheet next to the wall. He took the sheet off, revealing a freshly forged, all-black suit of armor.

“I hope I got your measurements right,” he japed as Brienne came closer, inspecting the armor.

Her face didn't betray anything, but deep inside, she wanted to smile. She _knew_ Jaime Lannister was not an oathbreaker. She knew he would come around and keep his word.

“I'll find her,” she vowed, “For Lady Catelyn. For your brother. And for you.”

Jaime gave a tiny nod, looking down.

“I almost forgot,” he said after a moment of silence: “I have one more gift.”

***

Now Brienne was angry again. Did Jaime Lannister _want_ people to be angry at him? He seemed to put so much work into it...

“I don't need a squire,” she declared, eyeing the young boy standing there smiling next to Jaime. The smile fell right off his face.

“Of course you do!” Jaime replied airily, as if she had just said something preposterous.

“He'll slow me down,” Brienne insisted.

Now, Jaime lowered his voice: “My brother owes him a debt, he's not safe here. You'll be keeping him from harm,” he said, “It's chivalry.”

“I won't slow you down, Ser...” the boy added, earning sideways looks from both Brienne and Jaime.

“...m'Lady,” he awkwardly corrrcted himself, “I-I promise I'll serve you well.”

“See? He's a good lad!” Jaime insisted, “You'll get along.”

Brienne shifted from foot to foot and looked away as the commander of the City Watch - Bronn, she believed his name was - approached the boy.

“With the compliments of Lord Tyrion,” he said, uncovering a double-headed axe: “His axe from the Blackwater,” he said, dropping the weapon in the boy's hands.

Now the boy looked so proud. Dammit, were they trying to appeal to her softer side here? Because if so, that was a low blow!

“What are you waiting for, a kiss?” the stern commander said, “Ready the lady's horse!”

The boy moved to comply like an eager puppy. And Brienne immediately knew that particular argument was already lost.

The boy seemed efficient, however. In a couple of minutes, both her horse and his own were saddled and ready.

Jaime approached one last time as she mounted her steed.

“Be careful,” he told her, “Robb Stark has moved from the Riverlands to the Crownlands. If you meet him, best not tell him I sent you to look for his sister,” he joked.

“On the contrary,” Brienne replied, “he ought to know there are Lannisters who care for his sister's wellbeing, without trying to gain anything from it.”

Jaime didn't answer. He just looked down, hiding a small smile.

“Goodbye, Brienne,” he simply said.

Brienne kicked her horse, and they were off.

***

Grey Wind's breath was even and regular as he slept. Robb caressed his belly, and his hind leg twitched a little. The wolf gave a small sigh, but kept sleeping.

Robb smiled fondly. It was rather incredible how calm and educated his wolf could be. Robb himself had almost forgotten, having grown accustomed to seeing him growl, and run into battle, and tearing Lannisters apart.

Grey Wind had always been the most disciplined pup of his litter. Father had said that was thanks Robb’s training, that he had tamed his wolf better than any of his siblings had their own. Robb felt pride at the praise, but he knew it wasn't entirely his doing. Grey Wind was simply _that_ good.

Suddenly, the carriage they were hiding in stopped. Grey Wind woke immediately, probably disturbed by the sudden lack of vibrations. As the wolf's head shot up, Robb shushed him, his hand clutching the wolf's fur.

Grey Wind looked at him, then at the back of the carriage. He silently got up and repositioned, facing the entrance to the cart, poised for an attack. Robb himself moved to a crouching position and slowly wrapped his hand around Ice's handle.

They could hear voices outside. Robb didn't have to see outside to know what was going on: they were at the gates of King's Landing.

Oberyn had warned him: if he couldn't dissuade the guards to check his carriages, he would deny ever siding with Robb, claiming he and Grey Wind had snuck into his carriages unseen, with none the wiser. He and the Red Viper had briefly entertained the possibility to try and pass him for one of his attendants, but there was no way his icy blue eyes, auburn hair and pale complexion could pass for Dornish. Besides, Grey Wind was rather difficult to disguise as an attendant too, and Robb was _not_ about to leave his loyal wolf alone near the capital.

Master and wolf waited in silence, tense and ready to pounce on whoever dared open the carriage. But after a few more minutes, the cart started moving again.

Robb relaxed and Grey Wind sat down. But it wasn't until they stopped once more that they calmed completely. Oberyn himself opened the back of the carriage, smiling a mischievous smile: “Here we are,” he said, “behind enemy lines...”

Robb and Grey Wind jumped down discreetly and rushed into the building Oberyn pointed them to.

They were going to stay with the prince's entourage. As long as they didn't venture outside the building, they would be unmolested by the various Lannister patrols that roamed the city.

“How do we proceed?” Robb asked as soon as they entered.

“I’m going to make my presence known, gather some information,” Oberyn replied, “But first... It's been a long journey. A little distraction is in order.”

Robb eyed him questioningly. The Viper simply shrugged: “I hear the brothels of this city are the best in all of Westeros...”

“Shouldn’t we focus on the matters at hand?” Robb asked disapprovingly. He had heard of the Red Viper's proclivities, but this was hardly the time or the place.

“Patience, my friend,” Oberyn smiled, walking away, “Vengeance needs careful planning and lots of waiting. Might as well have some fun in the meantime. I'd ask if you care to join me, but you lost your wife not too long ago, and I don't want to appear insensitive. I'll see you at dinner.”

And with that, he was out of the door.

Grey Wind turned his gaze from the door to his master, tilting his head in confusion when he saw him with his eyes blown wide and his mouth agape.

Robb looked back at his wolf and shook his head, giving an exhasperated sigh: “Unbelievable,” he muttered, moving to get to the sleeping quarters, followed by a still confused Grey Wind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you're probably thinking there's no way they got into the city so easily, right? Well, in the series, Tywin seemed ready to grant Oberyn quite a lot of leeway, since he wanted Dorne to ally with the Crown for when Dany arrives, and the Martells and the Lannisters had some bad history behind them.
> 
> In this story Tywin is dead, but Kevan - who succeeded him - might be wanting to treat the Dornish with the gloves too, for pretty much the same reasons. And inspecting all their convoy when they arrive at King's Landing would make quite a bad first impression. It was risky, but Oberyn probably counted on that, especially since in this version, he was invited by Tywin personally, not for the King's wedding, but for discussing a potential alliance.


	7. The Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Robb is forced to sit idle to avoid being recognized in the middle of King's Landing, Oberyn Martell learns of the last developments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so yeah. Apparently I'm still alive. Unfortunately, there's your plan to write a fanfiction and update it regularly, and then there's real life. I can't promise more regular updates, but don't worry, this story won't be abandoned any time soon.

**King's Landing**

Robb's fist crashed down on the table. Or rather, it crashed _the_ table, breaking it clean in half.

“Fucking Lannisters!” he cursed, before starting to pace up and down the room.

Oberyn watched the whole display in silence. Back in the far end of the room, Ellaria and his daughters were also looking on, a slight shadow of fear in their eyes.

Obara had been the first one to track down the King in the North, so she had already witnessed his abilities in person. Now, her hands were balled into fists: she didn't like people being measurably stronger than her in general, but she _really_ didn't like them being _that_ much stronger. In fact, she hated even the mere concept of someone so strong she could never realistically hope to catch up to them. Hence the hateful glare she was now sending in Robb's direction. If looks could kill, the King in the North would already be ashes.

Ellaria, Nymeria and Tyene were also quite a bit concerned. Nymeria in particular had believed the ‘Young Wolf', this mystical creature descending from the heavens to rain the fury of the Gods upon the Lannisters, to be nothing but a fairytale concocted by the Lannisters themselves to hide their own incompetence in the battlefield. Oberyn smirked at her current, bewildered expression. _You now stand corrected, daughter..._

Oberyn himself, however, was feeling for the King's plights.

He had just delivered him the news: Sansa Stark had been taken away from the city, not a week before their arrival. She slipped right through Robb's fingers. Oberyn could relate to that, a sister slipping through his fingers.

The first to break the silence was Obara: “Are you done throwing a tantrum?” she asked the King in a tone that Oberyn didn't care for at all.

The Young Wolf's head snapped in her direction, carrying so much unbrindled fury that his eldest flinched visibly and nearly took a step back in fear.

Oberyn wasn't going to comment.

There was a fine line between a light teasing and flat out being rude, and Obara had just leapt over it with both feet. Even the light teasing would have been too much in this circumstance, but the condescending tone his daughter had used was making him want to whack her over the head and order her to apologize.

However, the King seemed to have her complete attention at the moment.

“I don't know if you care for your kin at all, Lady Sand,” he started, his voice nearly unrecognizeable for how low and growly it was, “but I certainly care for mine. So forgive me if the news that my sister, quite possibly my _only_ remaining sibling, has been taken away and I'm no closer to saving her makes me angry.”

Obara clenched her fists even harder, evidently biting back a snide reply... or maybe trying to come up with one. Oberyn didn't wait to find out.

“I need to speak with the King alone,” he ordered, looking to his beloved.

Ellaria merely nodded and turned to leave, followed by Tyene. Nymeria’s eyes flickered between him, the King and Obara, before she also left, though without much conviction.

Obara was the last to leave, glaring daggers at the King over her shoulder even as she walked away.

Oberyn would need to sit her down and have a talk with her one day. Her arrogance and posturing didn't sit well with him at all.

But that would have to wait. They were in a dangerous place at a dangerous time; he could put up with Obara's attitude until they returned to Dorne. For now, he had to focus on the Lannisters.

And so should Robb Stark.

“What do you plan to do now, Your Grace?” he asked.

The King in the North seemed to calm down a little as he turned to him, though Oberyn noticed he looked a little edgy at the term he had used to address him.

For all his incredible power, Robb Stark was still young, and probably not yet used to being referred to as a royal. Eddard Stark had raised him to be the next Lord of Winterfell, yes, but from there to being acclaimed the first King in the North in three hundred years, Oberyn supposed the step was not really a short one.

“I have to find Sansa,” Robb declared, still pacing nervously, “I have to leave the city at once. I have to find out where they have taken her, I don't care if I have to go through the entire Lannister army to find someone who has answers. Someone somewhere must know _something!"_

Oberyn interrupted him immediately. He had expected such an answer, but that would not do. He appreciated the King's drive to act quickly - it was probably part of the reason he had never lost a single battle - but this was not a battlefield... not a conventional one, at least. This situation required a lot more planning than the Young Wolf was usually comfortable with.

“And _how_ do you plan on finding this unspecified ‘someone somewhere who knows something'?” he finally queried, “Where will you start looking? Do you have any clue as to who helped remove your sister?”

That gave the young King pause. But only for a moment:

“I... I will find something,” he reiterated, though not very confidently, “I can't just sit idly by while my sister is still in the clutches of the Lannisters. I have to _do_ something!”

“And is this city not the best starting point?” Oberyn pressed, raising his arms to encompass their surroundings: “Your sister was right here. All the Lannisters are _right here._ If you want a lead, some kind of clue, should you not start from the last place where you know for sure your sister has been?”

This time, the King didn't reply. His expression was conflicted, his inability to help his sister warring with the overwhelming need to act. Oberyn had walked that path before.

He came up to him and grabbed his shoulder, making the young man look him in the eye.

“There has been another development,” he told him, “Tyrion Lannister has been arrested for conspiracy against the Crown.”

The Young Wolf's brow furrowed in confusion, then, almost immediately, his eyes narrowed.

He had probably already come to Oberyn's same conclusion: the man Sansa Stark had been forcefully married to, arrested for conspiracy right upon his wife's disappearance could only mean one thing.

However, Robb's dejected expression returned almost immediately:

“So the famous Imp is the one who stole my sister from the city,” the boy summarized in defeat, “That’t great news. Now all I have to do is get myself arrested and hope they'll throw me in a cell next to his. Then maybe, before they drag us both to the execution block, I will finally find out where Sansa has been taken. Right before my head ends up on a spike next to my father's.”

At Robb's gloomy conclusions, Oberyn laughed. He laughed an actual, good-hearted laugh, even throwing his head back in amusement, much to Robb's bewilderment.

“Oh, my overly pessimistic friend,” Oberyn sighed, sobering up and throwing his arm over Robb's shoulders, “you always look at the worst possible outcomes...”

“I believe the situation pretty much dictates it, wouldn't you agree?” Robb scoffed, “I met the Lannisters in Winterfell, a few years ago. We didn't socialize much, but even a blind simpleton could see there's no love lost between Tyrion Lannister and the rest of his family. Cersei and Joffrey will not care whether he is really involved in Sansa's disappearance or not; now that they have an excuse to get rid of him, they will. And I will be back to the starting point. _Again,”_ he recounted, clenching his fists in frustration as he finished.

Oberyn’s smile, however, grew a little wider. There was one last thing he hadn't told Robb.

“You are right about most of it,” he agreed, his arm still over Robb's shoulders, “but you are making a little mistake: you are underestimating the Imp.”

The Young Wolf's eyebrows once again scrunched together in confusion: Underestimating Tyrion Lannister? What trick could a disgraced man locked in a dungeon _possibly_ still have up his sleeve?

“Don’t feel bad about it,” Oberyn continued, “From what I understand, the entire world tends to underestimate the Imp. Even I did, at first. And you... well, locked in this place with your wolf all the time, there was no way for you to know, even though by now it's practically the only thing this entire city is talking about...”

Robb looked at him impatiently: “What is it?” he wanted to know.

“The Imp knew he was never going to get a fair trial. He knew his sister and nephew are salivating at the prospect of watching his head roll. So he demanded a trial by combat.”

The new revelation gave Robb pause.

_Trial by combat?_

It was not unheard of, obviously. But Robb hadn't even consider the possibility. Obviously Tyrion would not fight himself, so he would need to call forth a champion to fight for him... Was there even a single person in King's Landing, that was mad enough to stand against Cersei and her bastard by fighting for her hated brother?

Somehow, Robb doubted that very much.

“So Tyrion won't go down without a fight,” he finally said, “That's admirable of him, but it hardly makes a difference, doesn't it? If Joffrey wants him dead, it's a foregone conclusion. Cersei will do everything in her power to make sure Tyrion loses. The Lannisters have so much gold coming out of their arses, they can afford to call the strongest fighters in the world to fight for them against whoever ends up being Tyrion's champion...”

“Exactly,” Oberyn simply replied.

Robb looked up at him. There was eagerness in his voice, and even some amusement. As if the whole situation was playing out exactly like he had planned. It was a little unsettling.

Then again, the Red Viper was always a little unsettling.

“...Am I missing something?” he asked, wanting to know what was making Oberyn so giddy.

The Dornish prince looked at him with a malicious glint in his eyes: “You said it yourself,” he drawled, "Cersei will call in the strongest fighter in the world... Or at least, the strongest fighter she knows of...”

For a moment, Robb still didn't understand. Then, realization hit him.

The strongest fighter Cersei knew of, the strongest in the Lannister ranks.

“Gregor Clegane,” he whispered.

“Gregor Clegane,” Oberyn repeated, “the man who raped and killed my sister.”

“...You think they will call the Mountain to be the Crown's champion?” Robb asked.

“I don't _think_ it, Your Grace. I _know_ it. Who better, to ensure beyond doubt Tyrion's champion doesn't win?” Oberyn responded, still with that unsettling tone and light in his eyes.

Robb already knew what he was plotting. After all, they had entered this city together because they were driven by the same motivations.

“You want to fight for Tyrion...”

“For Tyrion? No,” Oberyn answered, “I plan on fighting for my sister. For her children. And for myself. I plan on bringing long overdue justice to Gregor Clegane for his crimes against Dorne.

This time, Robb didn't reply. He simply nodded, lowering his gaze.

He wasn't sure how to feel about this.

Yes, his own uncle Edmure had defeated Gregor Clegane's forces once, at Stone Mill. But there was a difference between defeating Gregor Clegane's forces and defeating Gregor Clegane himself.

The Mountain's strenght was legendary. He was said to be able to crush a human head with a single hand. He was said to not even really needing an armour, because his muscles and his skin were so strong they were already impervious to swords and arrows.

And it wasn't just raw strenght either: he was said to be extremely skilled and extremely fast, despite his hulking size. Even with his mysterious new power, Robb was not at all confident he could take such an opponent.

Then again, he was not confident he could take on the Red Viper either.

Both Gregor Clegane and Oberyn Martell were tremendously skilled fighters, whereas Robb was still a young, green boy. He had practiced his swordplay ever since he could stand on his own two feet, but the Mountain and the Viper both had decades of training and battle experience over him. He didn't know if that was something his new strenght, speed and reflexes could compensate for.

Still, the prospect made him pretty nervous: “Are you sure about this?” he asked Oberyn in the end.

The Viper looked down at him with a long look: “I'm not sure beyond any doubt that Ser Gregor will be the Crown's champion,” he replied, “But if he is, then yes, I'm absolutely sure I will be Tyrion's.”

With that said, he took his arm off Robb's shoulders and made to leave.

***

“Imprisonment has gotten to your head,” Jaime ranted, pacing up and down the lenght of the small, filthy cell, “there's no other explanation...”

Tyrion would have rolled his eyes at his brother's tirade if the situation was less serious. They had been over this already. Several times.

“Look me in the eye and tell me you truly believe Cersei would have given me a fair trial,” he said to Jaime, once again, for what felt like the thousanth time.

“You threw your life away,” Jaime replied, not really answering the question, “You threw it away! It's not a joke, you understand that, don't you!?”

“Of course it's a joke,” Tyrion replied, "for your vicious bastard of a son, _everything_ is a joke. This one just happens to be particularly unpleasant. He either wanted me to beg for mercy before killing me all the same, or maybe force me to take the black and live the rest of my days in disgrace and away from sight. He wanted to humiliate me. It felt good to deny him the satisfaction...”

“I thought you were a realist,” Jaime considered, “Didn't realize you'd die for pride.”

“Don't give up on me just yet,” Tyrion answered with a conviction in his voice he didn't necessarily feel: “I survived one trial by combat, even though you weren't there to save me...”

“I can't save you this time either,” Jaime muttered. Tyrion's brows creased in confusion.

“My training has proved that I can't beat a stable boy with my left hand,” Jaime explained, clearly disappointed in himself.

The younger sibling gave a nervous smile and gulped past a sudden knot in his throat: “Well, Bronn fought for me once, he'll do it again,” he said, dismissing Jaime's confession, “If he wins, I expect I'll be in his debt for the rest of my life.”

“If he wins,” Jaime replied pessimistically.

There was a very long moment of silence.

“Who do Cersei and Joffrey plan on naming as a champion?” Tyrion asked then, changing the topic, “I hope it's Ser Meryn Trant. I'd enjoy watching Bronn disembowel that pompous child beater...”

“No,” Jaime answered, his expression now even darker than before: “Not Ser Meryn.”

***

“It's him,” Ellaria Sand announced, entering the room.

Both Robb and Oberyn turned to her, as she made a beeline for her lover and hugged him, kissing him lightly on the lips.

“I spoke with Kevan Lannister today,” she told him, smiling: “Gregor Clegane has answered the Lannisters' call. He will be the Crown's champion in the Imp's trial."

Robb’s eyes immediately snapped from her to Oberyn. The Red Viper was smirking maliciously.

“At last,” he muttered, staring in the distance, “the opportunity I've been waiting for.”

He seemed sure of himself, Robb noted. _Too sure..._

“Once I free Tyrion, you will be able to ask him about your sister,” Oberyn said, turning to him, “You just have to be patient for a little while longer, Your Grace.”

Robb stood there frozen for a moment, before shaking his head: “You don't have to do this for me,” he told him.

“Oh, but I am not,” Oberyn dismissed him, “I already told you. I'm doing this for justice.”

“Still-" Robb tried to insist, but the prince cut him off:

“Fighting against the Mountain is something that has nothing to do with you,” Oberyn reiterated, "and as for whatever Tyrion Lannister will tell us about your sister afterwards, when I bring him here to celebrate his newfound freedom... well, consider it a gift. For swinging that nice sword of yours through Lord Tywin's neck,” he said, smiling and pointing at Ice, slung across Robb's back.

This time Robb stayed silent. But it didn't sit well with him that Oberyn was talking as if he had already won his incumbent duel.

“Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to pay the Imp a visit,” the Dornish prince continued, “I doubt someone has already offered to fight for him, but I'd hate to have to kill some unlucky knight and throw his body into the sea for inadvertently taking my spot.”

And with that, he gave his paramour a quick peck on the lips and was out of the room.

Robb had a bad feeling about this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first, I had planned to cover Tyrion's trial in much more detail, similar to how it's portrayed in the series. But then I thought: Tyrion was somehow still willing to give Tywin the benefit of the doubt, and wait and see if his trial would be a fair one or not. Would that still be the case with Joffrey and Cersei in Tywin's place? Probably not. So he immediately went: "F**k you all, trial by combat!" And thus, we finally got to Cersei and Joffrey doing their level best to ensure he loses, i.e. call in the Mountain, and Oberyn jumping at his chance of vengeance. No Tywin presiding the whole thing this time, but with both Robb and Joffrey still in play and RIGHT THERE, things have the potential to get pretty interesting... Taking bets, people!


	8. The Trial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn faces off against the Mountain at Tyrion's trial by combat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! It's a little late to wish you a merry Christmas, so... happy new year! XD.

Ever since he had learned that Oberyn intended to challenge the Mountain at Tyrion Lannister's trial, a sense of foreboding had taken over Robb. He tried to speak with the Prince about it a couple of times, but he was thoroughly dismissed. The Red Viper seemed absolutely confident in his abilities and, more than that, in the righteousness of his motivations.

A part of Robb still wanted to argue. He knew better than anyone that certain and absolute victory didn't come by simply being in the right.

Nevertheless, he hadn't insisted. He had never seen Oberyn fight, so he knew not of his true abilities. After all, vengeance _was_ a tremendous motivator, that could give a man the strenght to fight and win even against impossible odds. So, after the first couple of times his reservations had been voiced and dismissed, he decided to keep them to himself.

Yet the bad feeling hadn't left him. It was something akin to the nervous anticipation that pervaded him before a battle, even though this time he was going to be just a spectator. Still, it wasn't his place to question Oberyn's judgement, nor his ability to see this through.

And so, everything was set, and the day finally came. The day Oberyn would face the Mountain on behalf of Tyrion Lannister.

Even though for obvious reasons Grey Wind couldn't come with him, Robb insisted on being present for the fight, and Oberyn had been willing enough to oblige him. Robb had concealed himself with a brown, hooded cloak, and had left the inn on his own, slightly before the Dornish party. Leaving the inn from a secondary door, he made his way towards the plaza in front of the Sept of Baelor at a leisurely pace, to avoid people looking at him. When he arrived, the smallfolk had already crowded the entire place, and more people still were continuing to arrive.

His nervousness was increasing as he slowly made his way towards the front of the impromptu arena.

This was where Father had been executed, with his own sword.

The same sword that was now in Robb's hands.

Hiding Ice under his cloak was a bit of a chore. He was holding the big sword flush against his body, as it was the only way to carry it without people noticing. Even so, the tip of the blade was almost brushing against the ground and the pommel was up to just under his chin. It made him slightly nervous: a single guard looking at him for longer than a passing moment could notice his awkward posture but, as possibly the most wanted man in the Seven Kingdoms, he couldn't very well afford to wander the streets unarmed. And even if he could, he would never part with the sword that represented all he had left of his father.

In any case, he had sworn to Oberyn he wouldn't interfere in his quest for vengeance. _You have taken Lord Tywin already,_ Oberyn had told him, _Clegane is mine._

Fine by him, really. The Mountain was nothing to Robb. His target was another.

It was the little vermin that, a while later, made his grand appearance at the arena.

Robb’s knuckles went white around the handle of his father's sword. He was in the front row of the crowd as Joffrey, escorted by the entire royal party, claimed the seat of honor.

This was the cunt who had started the war. This was the false king that had taken his father's head. This was the entitled little bastard who had held Sansa hostage for _years._

Robb had to restrain himself from running up to him and chopping him to pieces where he stood.

The blonde fucker looked strangely weary and skittish. The arrogant smirk and superior posture that Robb remembered from those fateful days in Winterfell years ago were still there, but there was something off about him. He was pale, his eyes sunken in and rimmed in black from lack of sleep, and his hand was shaking slightly as he waved at the gathered crowd.

Robb wondered why the spoiled brat looked so worn. Could it be that he was feeling the weight of the war he had started? Or maybe his incestuous whore of a mother was simply neglecting to kiss him goodnight lately.

He scowled. It would be so easy to end it all right here and now.

Joffrey was surrounded by a dozen Kingsguards, including his true father, the Kingslayer. And that was nowhere near enough to protect him from Robb's inhuman fury, should he give in to it. Especially considering those guards also had to protect the rest of the royal party as well.

Cersei Lannister was walking right behind her bastard. Her expression was serious and composed, but the satisfied glint in her eyes didn't escape Robb's notice. He remembered what Oberyn had said: Cersei hated her younger brother Tyrion. Seeing him go to trial was probably lifting her mood considerably.

There was also another woman Robb had never seen before. She was quite beautiful, with light brown hair and blue eyes, but there wasn't the faintest trace of a smile on her face as she waved at the crowd in concert with the others.

Robb had been keeping on with the news while slaughtering Lannisters on the way to King's Landing. He could make an educated guess as to who the mysterious girl was.

_Margaery Tyrell,_ his mind supplied, _Joffrey's new betrothed, after he threw Sansa away like trash._

Not that he was complaining. If anything, he pitied the poor girl who had taken his sister's place under such a yoke.

His eyes turned back to Joffrey. The shit was still waving at his subjects, smirking without a care in the world.

Robb hated him with every single fiber of his being. He hated his condescending smirk, his malicious eyes, his stupid blonde bowlcut.

Once again, his grip on Ice tightened ever so slightly: _Soon, little cunt,_ he vowed vengefully, _very soon._

The next to appear was the accused.

Tyrion Lannister looked a far cry from the cocky man he had met in Winterfell. His once clean shaven face was now covered by a stubble, his eyes were downcast and his hair unwashed and unkempt. Even his clothes were pretty dirty. King's Landing’s dungeons definitely hadn't done him any favor.

He was brought to the far side of the arena, his hands chained. Next to him, was Oberyn, clad in an ornate brown armor. His squire was polishing a spear.

Oberyn was carrying himself with the usual confidence and bravado. Like always he was absolutely sure of himself, absolutely sure to win. Robb could almost have believed him capable to defeat anything... until his adversary showed up.

The Mountain was the biggest man Robb had ever seen.

Gregor Clegane was easily twice the weight of the Red Viper, if not more. Oberyn was a tall man, but he didn't even come up to Clegane's chin. One of the Mountain's arms seemed almost the size of Robb's torso, and he was clad in a black armor that made him look even bigger and more intimidating. He was wielding a massive greatsword that looked about as long as Oberyn's spear.

Robb didn't think he would ever see a sword as big as the one he was concealing on his persona at the moment, but the Mountain’s sword was every bit as big as Ice... and even so, it looked rather small in the hands of such a wielder. He had hoped Oberyn would have a range advantage fighting with a spear, but that enormous sword negated that advantage almost entirely.

“You're going to fight _that?”_ Robb heard Ellaria Sand ask in a worried tone.

“I'm going to _kill_ that,” Oberyn replied.

Robb forced himself to tear his gaze away from the hulking man and looked at the Dornish in worry. Yet Oberyn was deadly serious.

This was what he had come to King's Landing for. This was his chance to avenge his late sister and her children.

Robb could only hope Oberyn made it count.

In a matter of moments an old, frail looking maester slowly made his way in the center of the arena on wobbly feet. The trial was about to begin.

“In the sight of gods and men, we gather to ascertain the guilt or innocence of this...man,” the maester began, showing obvious contempt for the accused in how he pronounced the last word, “Tyrion Lannister. May the Mother grant them mercy. May the Father give them such justice as they deserve. And may the Warrior guide the hand of our champion-"

Joffrey cut the old maester off waving his hand in boredom. At his command, a horn sounded to start the fight. Bemused, the old man stuttered something inintelligible, before slowly retreating from the plaza.

It was on.

Oberyn’s squire tossed him his weapon. The Red Viper immediately proceeded to put on a show, expertly twirling the spear and showing off some acrobatics. Robb doubted Clegane was impressed by any of it, but he had to admit Oberyn’s reputation was well earned: he was extremely skilled. The crowd seemed to agree with him, cheering briefly.

Oberyn, in the meantime, was done showing off. He finally faced his opponent: “Have they told you who I am?” he asked out loud.

“Some dead man,” the Mountain grated in his low, guttural voice, lunging forward without any more preambles. Oberyn dodged, again with a lot of flare in his moves.

“I am the brother of Elia Martell,” he replied, “Do you know why I have come all the way to this stinking shit-pile of a city? _For you!”_

Again, the Mountain came at Oberyn charging like a bull, with a bloodcurdling battle cry, and again, Oberyn sidestepped him.

“I'm going to hear you confess before you die,” the Viper declared, “You raped my sister. You murdered her. You killed her children. Say it now and we can make this quick,” he growled.

They grappled again. The Mountain was terrifyingly strong, but he was just throwing himself at Oberyn without any form or technique, relying purely on his overwhelming strenght. Oberyn’s skill, by contrast, was unrivalled. He danced around his opponent's attack with ease, until he finally retaliated with one of his own, striking Clegane on the head and knocking his helmet off.

_He almost makes it look easy,_ Robb thought with a smirk. _Maybe all that cockiness isn't uncalled for..._

“Say it. You raped her,” Oberyn repeated, poking at his opponent with his spear, “You murdered her,” he continued, dodging another charge, “You killed her children,” he insisted.

Robb's smirk was gradually being replaced by a scowl. He knew what Oberyn was doing: he was riling his opponent up to get him to make a mistake. It was a good strategy, but against Gregor Clegane it could be incredibly dangerous.

_Don't play with him, Martell..._

In the next attack, the Mountain actually managed to get his sword to connect. He pushed Oberyn's spear to the ground, breaking it in half, before flooring the Dornish with a powerful kick to the chest.

Robb clenched his teeth, fighting back the sudden urge to jump in the arena right then and there. He had to stay calm; he couldn't intervene now. If he did, Oberyn would never forgive him.

This was his fight. He had specifically told him so.

_Damn it, Oberyn..._

Still, a second later, the Red Viper jumped right back up with a sneer on his face.

The prince's squire was quick to toss him a new spear, and Oberyn now decided to finally switch to the offensive. In the next attack, the Mountain grabbed him by the back of his armor and tossed him to the ground, but when he moved in and raised his massive sword for the kill, Oberyn turned around and finally stabbed him in the abdomen.

_Yes!_

Clegane stumbled back as Oberyn got up and circled him.

“You raped her! You murdered her!” the Viper shouted, his face now contorted in rage.

Again, the mountain charged at him, and again Oberyn sidestepped him, this time slicing at his calf and causing the enormous Lannister lackey to drop down to one knee.

Robb's smirk was back in place. It was done.

_Now finish him!_

“You killed her children!” Oberyn screamed as he ran at Gregor for the kill.

The Mountain was on his knees as Oberyn charged at him with all his fury. It looked like a foregone conclusion.

It wasn't.

Just as Oberyn jumped on top of him, Clegane raised his sword, making Oberyn propel himself on it with his own momentum. Robb's eyes bulged as he choked on a scream, his whole body coiled in an aborted dash forward.

Oberyn had driven his spear in the Mountain's chest, but now the tip of Clegane's greatsword was sprouting out of his back.

He heard Ellaria and Oberyn's daughters scream in agony. He saw Oberyn's look of utter shock as he gazed down at the fatal wound the Mountain had inflicted him.

Robb couldn't believe his eyes as the Mountain slowly got to his feet and then lifted his sword up in the air with Oberyn still impaled on it.

“Elia Martell,” he growled, “I killed her children, then I raped her, then I killed her... And now I’ve killed her brother as well!”

The Dornish made a feeble attempt at pushing his own weapon deeper into Clegane's body, but his strenght was already leaving him. Soon enough, his hands dropped down from his spear and his whole body went limp. The Mountain jerked his sword to the side, Oberyn's body slowly sliding down the blade until he dropped to the ground, motionless.

Victorious, Clegane ripped Oberyn's blade off his chest. He then stumbled and fell to the ground, exhausted and wounded. When he hit the ground, Robb almost felt it shake under his boots.

He could still hear Oberyn's family screaming in the back of his mind, but he couldn't comprehend how quickly the tables had turned.

What brought him back to reality was, incredibly, Joffrey's voice.

“The Gods have made their will known,” the false King declared pompously, raising from his seat.

Robb’s head snapped in his direction, the shock instantly fading from his system as if it had never been there.

In its place, was rage.

“Tyrion Lannister,” Joffrey continued, “You betrayed the Crown. And the punishment for treason is death! So long as I rule, no traitor shall ever know mercy!”

For a split second, Robb's eyes darted to the Imp, in chains to the side of the plaza. He looked as if he was already dead, nothing but defeat in his eyes. Then he looked back at Joffrey.

The bastard was all cocky and smug as he preened in front of the crowd. Robb felt a growl make its way through his teeth almost unconsciously.

His hands were trembling with rage around Ice's handle.

If they killed Tyrion now, all this would have been for naught. He needed the Imp to tell him where they had taken Sansa.

Robb saw two Goldcloaks grab Tyrion by his arms and manhandle him forward, where two more soldiers were bringing a chopping block right in the middle of the plaza, as more of them still were dragging away Oberyn's corpse and Clegane's unconscious form.

He saw the royal executioner put on a black hood over his face as a squire walked behind him with an executioner sword.

He saw Joffrey's smug face as he watched his uncle being brought to the block.

He watched the cold indifference in Cersei Lannister's eyes. He saw the way the Kingslayer and Margaery Tyrell were averting their eyes.

“Ser Ilyn, do your duty!” Joffrey ordered.

No. He wasn't going to let them. The Wolf Blood was burning in his veins. He was not going to sit idly by one second longer.

_I've done it your way, Martell. Now I'll do it MY way! That blonde shit must DIE!_

He dropped his cloak, revealing his massive weapon, and in the blink of an eye he was jumping into the arena. The crowd that was already clamoring for the Imp's head to roll, was immediately silenced as the almighty jump landed Robb right between Ilyn Payne and his would-be victim.

Robb swinged his sword with inhuman strenght. Ser Ilyn's head flew off his neck and landed right at Joffrey’s feet. The boy-king yelped in fear and stumbled back, falling flat on his arse as he stared at Ilyn's severed head, still covered by the executioner hood.

For a moment, it almost seemed like the whole world had stopped. Everything and everyone was like frozen, immobile.

Joffrey's eyes were wide with fear. Tyrion’s were bulging in surprise. Robb's were narrowed in absolute, but all too familiar, fury.

The moment after that, it was almost as if the crowd itself was exploding.

Everybody started screaming and running in every direction. Total chaos enveloped everything.

In the midst of it all, Robb slowly raised to his full height, his sword still drawn out to the side in the final position of the swing that had taken Ilyn Payne's head.

His eyes slowly turned to the little abomination that held the crown on his head.

Joffrey was still sitting on the ground, trembling like a leaf. He felt as if the coldest of winters had frozen him in place as he watched the newcomer's crystal blue eyes pierce into his own.

Then, Jaime's voice reached his ears.

“...Robb Stark...” Jaime whispered in utter fear and disbelief.

In that moment, amidst the screams of terror from the crowd, Joffrey heard his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's how Ilyn Payne disappeared from Arya's list.
> 
> Anyways... yeah. The first casualty of this chapter was not easy to write. Believe me, I was as sad to write about Oberyn's demise as you probably are reading it. Unfortunately, for plot purposes, Oberyn had to go. All I could do was give him a somewhat cleaner and quicker death, in part also because if Gregor had taken his sweet time torturing him like he did in the show, Robb would have had the time to jump in and save him.
> 
> At this point, things may or may not get even messier. We know Oberyn's spawn didn't take particularly kindly to his death, and they won't in this story either... with a small caveat. More of that in later chapters.
> 
> If it's any consolation, even though Oberyn was always going to die in this story, I really liked writing him interacting with Robb. I have another story planned for the distant future where I can write more about this bromance while at the same time NOT going all GRRM on these two XD.
> 
> Finally, because Joffrey is not Tywin, and clearly he hadn't had enough fun yet, he wanted to execute Tyrion right away... which sent Robb in wolf mode, because Robb still thinks it was Tyrion who smuggled Sansa away from King's Landing. And now, Joffrey finds himself within striking distance of a badly triggered Young Wolf.
> 
> The next chapter should be an interesting one... >:)


	9. Kingslayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb takes out the trash.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone, and happy 2020! And to start off the year with some good cheers, here is a Stark boot crushing a very hateful Lannister bug :D.

**King's Landing**

Jaime was paralyzed, rendered motionless by what had just manifested before him. By the sheer force of the rage reflected in the Young Wolf's eyes.

The Stark boy had just made an impossible jump, landing right in the middle of the arena and slicing Ilyn Payne's head clean off his shoulders in a single, swift motion. Jaime had barely seen him move.

It was all true. A man with the speed and strength of a direwolf, impossible to defeat. And now he was right there, fifty feet in front of him, ready to slaughter everyone in his path.

He heard Joffrey scream. He turned to his King, to his _son,_ and saw him still on the ground, too terrorized to even stand up. He was pointing a trembling finger towards the newcomer, shouting at the Kingsguards and the Goldcloaks to attack, to kill the traitor, to protect their King. But the simple fact of the matter was, _nobody_ could protect Joffrey. Not anymore. Not now that his own deeds had ultimately turned Robb Stark into that... _thing._

Jaime turned his gaze back to the arena: the entire crowd looked like a swarm of bees, running in all directions at the same moment, and impeding the attempts of the guards to actually engage the King in the North.

He could no longer see Tyrion. The Young Wolf had already slaughtered the guards that had brought him to the block, but of his little brother, there was no trace.

Jaime was scared. He remembered how he had tried to goad Robb Stark into single combat, after being captured at the Whispering Wood. Back then, he had been sure of his superiority, sure to win...

Now, he had lost his sword hand, and he could witness the boy's fabled, _monstrous_ new power with his own eyes as he watched him raise his sword and literally split Ser Boros Blount in half. A Goldcloak tried to swing at him, but the impossibly powerful kid ducked under the sword and retaliated with a swing of his own, cutting off both of the hapless soldier's legs.

No, they couldn't possibly hope to stop him. All they could do was run, and they had to do it _now._

“Ser Meryn!” Jaime finally called. The older knight turned to him, his eyes wide with the same kind of fear Jaime was sure could be seen in his own.

“We have to protect the Royal Party!” he ordered, “Bring everybody back to the Red Keep!”

Meryn Trant didn't need to be told twice, as he turned and ordered some other guards to follow him. Together, Meryn and his comrades started to herd Cersei, Tommen, Margaery and the others away from the rapidly advancing Young Wolf.

But Jaime’s fleeting relief at seeing his twin and his youngest being brought to safety turned to ash in his mouth as he heard Cersei scream his name.

“Jaime!” Cersei yelled as loud as she could amidst of all the screaming, her voice between pleading and hysterical: “Jaime! Save Joffrey! Save him!!”

Jaime's eyes bulged in terror.

_Joffrey!_

The King was not with the rest of the Royal Party. Jaime turned around again, renewed panic weighing in his chest like a boulder threatening to crush him. He looked around, frantically scanning the chaos looking for his firstborn. He found him almost immediately.

Joffrey had stumbled on his feet and was running away in the opposite direction to his family. In his terrorized state of mind, his son was only preoccupied with running away from the godlike being currently unleashing his fury upon the Kingsguard, not realizing he was singling himself out and making himself a much easier prey.

But, Jaime knew, Robb Stark _had_ realized that. He knew the moment he turned to see how far away the Young Wolf still was from his prey. His eyes were trained on the escaping Joffrey... and his face was absolutely murderous.

_No... No no no! Leave my son alone!_

Jaime was terrified. He knew he couldn't win.

But he couldn't back down either.

He was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard. He was sworn to protect his King. And while he had broken that oath before, now his King was also his son.

What kind of father would let fear stop him from protecting his son?

Cersei and Tommen were going to be safe. The King in the North seemed to have eyes only for Joffrey, as he swung his Valyrian sword, slaughtering soldier after soldier as he made his way to his son's retreating form.

_Alright... If this is where I die, then so be it. At least, my death will be at the hands of a formidable opponent,_ Jaime thought, as he wrapped his left, trembling hand around the handle of his sword and unsheathed it.

Making his way to the Young Wolf was difficult enough, amidst all the still fleeing crowd and the remaining soldiers, some attacking the Northerner, others running away, even more terrified than he was by the powerful Wolf King. He finally made it to him as the Wolf cut down two more soldiers in a single swing.

He waited for the most favorable moment to strike and took advantage of the presence of another guard. As the Northern monster sunk his sword into the man's abdomen, Jaime tried to swing at him from his exposed side.

He was nowhere near fast enough.

His inhumanly powerful opponent simply raised his arm, and Jaime's sword clanged uselessly against the boy's arm guard. In desperation, Jaime threw all tactics to the wind and simply struck him across the face with his free, metal hand, using all the strength he could muster.

Robb Stark's face cracked to the side, but he kept holding his sword embedded into the doomed soldier's gut and Jaime's own sword blocked high above their heads with his arm guard.

Jaime watched in horror as the Young Wolf slowly turned his head back to him, his face completely disfigured by homicidal rage and a low, beastly growl coming out of his teeth. It was the most terrifying thing Jaime had ever seen. When their eyes locked, the Lord Commander knew he was about to be crushed like an insect.

The King in the North jerked his blocking arm outwards with so much force that Jaime lost the grip on his sword. It flew off his hand and clattered to the ground by their side. Then the Wolf struck him.

Jaime felt the air being punched out of him as the boy's fist smashed against his exposed side. Pain exploded in the whole right part of his torso as his armor caved in, and at least three of his right ribs snapped on impact, puncturing his lung.

Jaime dropped to the ground, his vision covered in white spots, and coughed blood.

He knew he was no match for the Wolf. He had tried his best to protect his son, but he had been swatted away like an annoying bug.

He tried to breathe, but he could barely inhale. The pain was overwhelming, and his vision became blurry around the edges as he started to lose consciousness.

His last coherent thought, before the darkness, was that their reckoning had come.

This crushing anguish that he was feeling, the same anguish he had heard in Cersei's voice... it was the same anguish that Sansa had felt as she watched Ilyn Payne execute her father.

Sooner or later, everyone pays for their sins. And now Robb Stark was there, unstoppable and all-powerful, to make him and his family pay for theirs.

***

He watched his umpteenth opponent whimper on the ground, slowly losing consciousness. In the back of Robb's mind, he distantly registered the metal hand, and the somewhat familiar face.

He recognized him. He recognized the Kingslayer, the man who had generated that little monster who wore a crown he had no right to wear. The man who had pushed Bran out of a window so nobody would learn about him and his sister. The man who had killed his own kin in order to escape captivity. Who had ambushed Robb's father in the streets and shoved a spear through his leg.

Robb was about to move in to finish him off, but two more guards attacked him. Robb made quick work of them, his proposition to end Jaime Lannister immediately forgotten in his thirst for blood. The Wolf Blood had taken him over almost entirely, and his instincts were screaming at him like never before: he wanted Joffrey _dead._

He raised his head to look for his main target. A few more guards were coming, but others were running away in fear. He had taken out almost the entire contingent by now. Finally, he could concentrate on snuffing the life out of that blonde pile of manure that had caused so much pain to him and his family.

He saw Joffrey in the distance, running away. Just like Tyrion Lannister had disappeared as soon as he had intervened and just like the rest of the royal party had fled the scene escorted by some of the guards.

_Behold, the Lannisters,_ he thought with a smirk as he prepared to meet three more Kingsguards head on, _The proud and noble Lions of the West, all running and screaming like chickens..._

The three guards came running at him. Robb sliced the first in half, then swung around and drove Ice through the second one's face, before stabbing the third in the shoulder of his sword arm with Roose Bolton's dirk. The third man screamed in pain and dropped his sword, his arm falling limp at his side as Robb had struck the nerve. Then, leaving Ice stuck in the second man's skull and the dagger embedded in the third's shoulder, Robb grabbed him by the breastplate and bit him in the side of his neck. The soldier's resulting scream turned into a wet gurgle as Robb sunk his teeth in the man's flesh and tore out his jugular.

Robb released the soldier, who fell dead to the ground. He spit and wiped his mouth with his sleeve as he looked at his handiwork.

All of the Kingsguards were either dead, maimed or otherwise incapacitated. Almost all of the smallfolk had run off, and those who were left were also running away. All around him, dead or dying soldiers littered the entire arena, the whimpers and screams of those still alive mixing with the retreating shouts and yells from the smallfolk.

The royal family was gone, having successfully retreated to the Red Keep, and he couldn't see the Sand Snakes either. Tyrion was also nowhere to be found.

No matter. He would deal with that later.

For now, there was one more life he had to take.

Joffrey had also escaped, although in his haste to save his arse, Robb had seen him run in the opposite direction to his family, away from the Red Keep. Still, he couldn't see him anymore.

He needed help to find him.

“Grey Wind...” he murmured.

For a moment, his eyes rolled back into his skull. A second later, he was back to himself.

Wasting no more time, he yanked both his sword and his dagger out of the bodies of his last two victims and took off in the direction Joffrey had taken, leaving a helpless, unconscious Jaime Lannister dying on the ground, completely forgotten like all the other royal guards he had just gone through.

***

_Grey Wind..._

It had been the most fleeting moment, the direwolf and his master becoming one.

Immediately, the massive apex predator rose from the floor of the inn where the Martells had kept him together with Robb. A second later, he was bursting through a window and running down the street as fast as he could, causing even more people to scream and run in terror, just like his master was doing in a different part of the city.

Grey Wind didn't spare one second glance to these inconsequential people. He was looking for someone else now.

The hunt had begun.

***

Joffrey ran and ran, tears starting to cloud his vision as he tried to escape, unable to believe what he had just witnessed. The Kingsguard were completely helpless as Robb Stark came down on them like the fist of an angry god.

He didn't hear the screaming in the distance anymore... Had that crazy demon truly butchered all of the soldiers?

_No... They must have killed him, at last,_ he tried to convince himself as he kept running. But then, he rounded a corner and stopped dead in his tracks.

The path in front of him was cut by the biggest beast he had ever laid eyes upon. It was a wolf, but it was simply enormous.

Joffrey gulped and let out a scared whimper. He remembered the wolves that had belonged to the Stark sisters and how scary they were, how he had hated Sansa because her beast had made him feel uneasy and threatened. How scared he had been when her sister's beast had attacked him. He remembered thinking he would sleep much better once one of those cursed animals had been killed and the other had been made to escape.

Now, he also remembered that those two had been but mere pups. The one that was in front of him now was terrifyingly larger, nearly the size of a small horse.

He felt the first tear run down his right cheek as the massive beast lowered its head and bared its fangs in a low, angry growl, its piercing golden eyes never leaving Joffrey's. Then the wolf took a slow step towards him.

Joffrey was trembling like a leaf. He took a step back, and then another as the gigantic wolf once again advanced on him.

All it took was for the beast to bark once.

Joffrey turned on his heels and ran back where he had come from, wailing like a woman having a crisis, fat tears now streaming freely down his face. All he wanted was to get as far away as he could from that demonic hell-beast. He didn't think that in so doing, he was running back towards the _other_ demonic hell-beast, the one that had made him run in the first place.

And sure enough, after he rounded another corner, there he was.

The King in the North was right in front of him, back straight and chin raised, staring him down. Joffrey nearly fainted.

Robb Stark's eyes were even scarier than those of that massive wolf. Icy blue orbs, freezing like the coldest of winters, narrowed in a furious scowl, felt like they were judging him and finding him guilty. Joffrey was transfixed, rooted on the spot by that murderous visage, that terrifying glare, and that massive sword, drawn with the blade pointed downward, blood dripping on the ground from nearly its entire lenght.

And the blood wasn't just on Robb Stark's sword. There was blood everywhere on his person: splattered on his clothes, on his face, even on his teeth as he bared them in a growl not much different from that of his wolf.

That was when he remembered the first time Sansa had dared standing up against him:

_“After I rase my armies and kill your traitor brother, I'm going to give you his head as well!”_ he had bragged, forcing her to look at her traitor father's severed head.

_“Or maybe he'll give me yours,”_ she had replied, her voice broken by pain but still resolute and defiant.

Joffrey felt both his bowels and his bladder give up as he realized that she had been right. Sansa's brother was going to give her his head! He was going to die!

It wasn't fair... It wasn't fair that his life was about to be ended by a miserable Northerner! He was the King, he should be the one with the power of life and death over his subjects!

Robb Stark was not advancing on him yet, for the moment contenting himself with glaring him down. Despite his current predicament, despite having just soiled himself, Joffrey raised an accusing, yet pathetically trembling finger at him: “Y-you can't touch me,” he said, his voice broken by fear completely ruining the intimidating effect, “I am your Ki-”

He never got to finish the phrase. The giant wolf that had blocked his escape came up behind him and attacked, clamping down on his outstretched hand and yanking him down. Joffrey fell on his knees and then flat on his back, screaming in pain as the enormous beast started savaging him with its razor-sharp teeth. Joffrey could only scream, begging for mercy, then calling for help, and in the end just wailing loudly.

“Enough, Grey Wind.”

At its master's command, the wolf finally let go of him. Joffrey didn’t know how long that torture had lasted, but in the end he had been reduced to a bleeding, sobbing mess: his clothes were torn and ruined and there were scratches and cuts all over his torso. His right forearm and hand were reduced to a bloody and barely recognizeable lump of meat, the index and middle finger having been bitten off entirely and the other fingers broken, bent and mauled unspeakably. His left shoulder was not faring any better, as was his chest and abdomen, and his face was nearly puce from all the crying. His tone was still pleading, but his words were completely unintelligible, broken by his sobs. He looked utterly pathetic, groveling in a pool of his own filth and urine in the middle of the street, with tears running down his cheek and snot running down his nose.

He tried to prop himself up on his elbows, but Robb Stark finally crossed the distance that had separated them, and the Northerner's foot slammed down on his head and held it against the ground, making him scream again.

“Winter has come, you sack of garbage...” the Young Wolf growled, grinding his foot viciously on Joffrey's head.

“Wait! Wait...” Joffrey begged, finally managing to utter something other than a pathetic whine: “Please... I-I can fix this! Please, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry for what I did! I was wrong, I understand now! I-I will grant the North its independence! You will be crowned by royal decree!” he tried, in a last-ditch effort to bargain for his life.

Who cared about the North? The Starks could keep that worthless, frozen wasteland! He only wanted them to leave him be!

But his attempt at bargaining was not received well. The Stark monster did take his foot off his head, but only to use it to kick him in the stomach.

Again, Joffrey screamed. Joffrey curled in a fetal position, and his eyes raised only to see Stark grab his sword with both hands, readying himself to end him.

_No! I don't want to die! Please, no! Mother, help me! Please, Someone save me!_

“Please, wait!” he tried again, “E-Every man has a price, we can come to an agreement! My-my family is rich! I can cover you in gold! Please, no... I d-don't want to die! I beg you, good King! Spare my life; I will make your every wish come true!” he said, slowly raising to his knees and holding his hands - or what was left of them - up in front of him in a gesture of complete submission and surrender.

This time, incredibly, the pleading seemed to get some results. Stark slowly lowered his sword, and then propped it against the wall to his right, dropping his hands to his side.

He seemed to be considering the proposal.

“My every wish, is it?”

Yes, Joffrey was getting through that thick Northern skull. Stupid Starks, all so gullible. He nodded vehemently, willing the other man to believe him, and gave a tentative, relieved smile. In so doing, however, he hadn't noticed that Stark's face had become, almost impossibly, even angrier.

The relief was short lived. The Young Wolf's hand shot to his neck, slowly lifting him from the ground and choking him. Joffrey thrashed weakly against the steely grasp as Stark brought his face mere inches from his own.

“I wish for you to die,” growled the King in the North, right before closing his free hand in a fist and slamming it against Joffrey's face.

The blow was devastating. Joffrey's jaw shattered, together with his cheekbone, and several of his teeth were knocked out of his mouth, clattering on the ground. At the same time, Stark had released the hold on his throat, and Joffrey fell flat on his back, not even realizing what had just happened.

Robb was on top of him in an instant, straddling the bastard and sitting on his chest, trapping him at his mercy. He then started to punch his face in, breaking more bones and more teeth.

He could have ended it all in a single blow, like he had done with Roose Bolton. He could have just brought Ice down on his neck, like he had done with Tywin Lannister. But that would have been too easy.

This little snot deserved to suffer.

Joffrey kept screaming and crying, his wails only fueling Robb's anger more and more until he could no longer hold back. Images of his mother and Talisa were flashing through his head, both gutted like fishes. His father, beheaded with his own sword. His sisters, one missing and the other unspeakably abused. All because of a bastard cunt who found delight in seeing others suffer.

Robb snapped completely. His hands found their way around Joffrey's head as he drove his thumbs into the false king's eyes. Joffrey let out a bloodcurdling shriek, thrashing wildly as blood started gushing out of his eye sockets.

Robb let out an angry scream of his own and _squeezed._

Joffrey's skull caved in under Robb's monstrous strenght. His head exploded.

Blood sprayed everywhere, even in Robb's face. Only then, did the Young Wolf regain himself.

He recoiled a little, breathing heavily as he raised his hands, still trembling in fury, and looked at his palms, completely covered in crimson. Joffrey’s head was reduced to a completely unrecognizeable lump of gore, his brains splattered all over the ground like a squashed bug.

For a moment, Robb just stared at it, stunned.

His parents would be ashamed of him. This kind of torture was something they would have never condoned.

But his parents were dead. Dead because of the whims of the sick bastard Robb had just ended.

The mere sight of Joffrey's face had pushed him over the edge like never before. In that moment, Robb simply hadn't cared. All he had cared for was making the false Baratheon _pay._

He had done what had to be done.

Robb finally stood, still looking down dispassionately at the absolute mess he had just made. He only took his gaze off the horribly mangled corpse when he heard a noise to his right.

He turned, and Grey Wind did the same.

Nymeria Sand was there. She looked frazzled, hes skin glowing with perspiration and wisps of hair falling disordinately out of her braid. She had clearly been in a fight herself.

Her eyes landed on the unrecognizeable pool of bloody meat that had once been Joffrey’s head. She gulped, going slightly pale, but then immediately looked up at him, full of resolve.

“We have to run,” she stated.

She was right. More Kingsguards were probably coming, and the entire Lannister army wouldn't be far behind.

Robb simply nodded once before retrieving Ice and following her, Grey Wind in tow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, Robb snapped BAAADLY this time. And because he was so badly triggered, Joffrey's death was a lot messier than strictly necessary. Even Robb himself, as you can see, realized he kind of let himself go a little too much...
> 
> ...who knows what this will mean in the future.
> 
> Still, having given Oberyn a cleaner death, I could reuse the really messy one for someone else. And we all know who deserved a messy death the most XD.


	10. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb and the Sand Snakes escape from King's Landing, but not without cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was an absolute pig to write. I don't know why. I'm still not 100% satisfied with it, but I fear if I go back on it I'm just going to ruin it. Let me know what you think.

**King's Landing - Blackwater Bay**

Robb didn't question her. He didn't utter a single word. Nymeria Sand had started running without even checking if he was following her, so he just did. He had retrieved his sword and taken off after her, Grey Wind's heavy steps right behind him.

They had taken several small alleys, avoiding the main streets entirely. Robb wasn't entirely sure Oberyn's daughter knew where they were going, but in the end they managed to reach the bay.

The entire coastline was guarded. Oberyn had told him that Sansa had been smuggled out of the capital by sea. Evidently, the City Watch was now doing its level best not to be caught flat-footed a second time.

Still, because of the pandemonium that had taken over most of the city due to Robb's... emotional episode, most of the guards had been diverted to try and find him in the city itself. Only four Goldcloaks were left on the part of the beach where Robb, Grey Wind and Nymeria exited the city. They were examining a few small boats, probably belonging to the fishermen of Fleabottom.

“There's a ship waiting for us, about two miles out,” Nymeria finally said, “but we need one of those boats to get there.”

Robb simply nodded.

The four soldiers didn't even manage to draw their swords. Grey Wind pounced on one of them, going right for the jugular, while Nymeria cracked her whip, catching another by the neck and making him trip backwards before ramming her dagger in his throat from behind. Robb took care of the last two. He had barely even finished taking care of this feeble resistance, that Oberyn’s daughter was already pushing one of the boats into the sea.

Robb eyed her sideways, but didn't comment. It didn't really sit right with him to steal what was probably some poor fisherman’s most prized possession, but there were good chances that the boat would be returned. They had found the boat Sansa had escaped in; they would find this one too.

As soon as they all jumped on board, Robb wordlessly took over the rows. Nymeria didn't say anything about it: Robb could get them away from the coast much faster than she could, and they were in a bit of a hurry.

It was a quiet trip. Neither of them spoke, and Grey Wind just laid on the floor quietly. Robb felt like a heavy weight was set deep in his chest, and Nymeria was looking everywhere but at him, her eyes glistening with unshed tears.

Robb didn't even know what to say to her. He did his best to try and just focus on rowing.

It took them about ten minutes before they spotted a small, two-masted brig sitting at anchor in the outer part of the bay: “There,” Nymeria exclaimed, pointing at the small ship.

“We arrived by land,” Robb considered, “Where did you get that ship?”

“From the Lannisters,” answered Nymeria, her voice was coated by hatred.

Robb's head snapped up to her.

“Myrcella Baratheon is betrothed to my cousin Trystane,” the Dornish woman explained, “Cersei asked my father to have that ship sailed to Sunspear as a nameday gift to her daughter. Father ordered it moored close to the bay in case we needed to get away sooner than planned... and now we do.”

Robb didn’t know how to answer. He wanted to offer his condolences, his sympathy for having lost a father, to apologize for not having been able to save Oberyn.

It took a long while for some words to finally come out of him: “I should have intervened sooner,” he said, his eyes downcast. Oberyn himself had specifically told him to stay put, but Robb couldn't help but feel like he felt like he had failed him. And his family.

“He had asked you not to,” Nymeria reminded him.

“I shouldn't have listened,” Robb insisted.

She didn't reply until their boat was lined up to the side of the ship. She grabbed the rope ladder dangling off the side of the hull.

“If you hadn't, my father would have never forgiven you,” she said, before starting to climb.

When they were all aboard, Robb was faced with Ellaria and Obara Sand as well. It was difficult to overcome the burning shame and look Oberyn's family in the eyes, but there hadn't been any accusation in Nymeria’s voice earlier, and the other two didn't even seem to notice him. They all just stood there, completely stone-faced, coiled with fury and despair both.

Someone was missing, though.

“Where's Tyene?” Nymeria demanded at one point, breaking the silence.

Robb noticed how Ellaria suddenly clenched her fists so hard that her hands started to tremble. She wasn't the one who answered Nymeria’s question.

“She didn't make it back,” Obara said laconically.

“What!?” Nymeria snapped.

“Some Lannisters attacked us on the way to the shore,” Obara replied, her teeth grinding together, “we lost her in the commotion.”

Robb's eyebrows scrunched together: “Why would the Lannisters attack you?” he asked softly, “I came at them from the other side of the arena! We made sure nobody ever saw any of you with me, and there's nothing relating my presence there with yours!”

This time, it was Ellaria who answered, her face now the picture of determination.

“Come with me,” she simply said, moving towards the back bridge.

***

Tyrion didn't know what was going on anymore.

Oberyn Martell had lost to the Mountain. He had been ready to accept his fate as Joffrey had started with his odious gloating... and then the unthinkable had happened.

Robb bloody Stark had appeared out of nowhere. He had seemed to descend from the heavens as he took Ilyn Payne's head, just before the executioner could take his.

Everything after that was a blur. A haze of steel, blood and screams.

He remembered chaos, and soldiers attacking, and the next thing he knew he was being hoisted up and carried away.

At some point, someone must have knocked him unconscious, because now he didn't even know where he was. He was sprawled on the floor in a room made of wood, richly furnished with oak drawers and chairs. He vaguely remembered being thrown on a boat, and then rather unceremoniously hoisted onto a ship, but-

His train of thought was interrupted when the door slammed open. Tyrion's eyes bulged in fear.

Oberyn’s paramour, Ellaria Sand, entered the room first, murder in her eyes and teeth clenched together. But it was the person who followed her that made his blood freeze in his veins.

Robb Stark. The all-powerful King in the North himself. And his appearance was the stuff of nightmares.

Blood was caked on his clothes, his face, his hands, his still drawn greatsword. He looked like he had just bathed in it. But the thing that scared Tyrion the most was his eyes. His icy blue orbs, made even more piercing by the contrast with all the red splattered on his persona.

He remembered hearing his uncle Kevan relay what the Freys had told his father after the Red Wedding: that looking at Robb Stark in that moment was like looking at the Stranger himself. That he looked like he could crush them all under his boot.

Never had a description been more accurate.

In that moment, Tyrion felt completely, entirely powerless. He had been held prisoner before, threatened with a blade before, but this was different. The Young Wolf was not someone he could sweet-talk around. Tyrion knew just by looking at him: he wouldn't be stopped with force, and he wouldn't be stopped with words.

Gone was the green and arrogant boy playing at being a Lord, that he had met back in Winterfell on the return trip from the Wall. In his place stood someone that could make a Dothraki Khal wet his pants in fear with his glare alone. And Tyrion was completely at his mercy.

“We took him while the Goldcloaks were distracted,” the Dornish woman said, her tone a curious mixture of dejected and furious.

“Why?” the Young Wolf asked her.

Lady Sand turned to the blood-covered man: “Oberyn made you a promise,” she replied, “and in Dorne, we keep our promises. While you couldn't save Oberyn, you at least made the Lannisters feel the sting of vengeance.”

_So that's what happened,_ Tyrion thought.

Robb Stark and Oberyn Martell had been conspiring together. And while the Viper couldn't get the vengeance he deserved, it seemed that the Wolf could.

It meant Joffrey was dead. And it didn't come as much of a surprise. Tyrion had known from the exact moment Robb had made his dramatic entrance in the arena, that Joffrey was beyond doomed.

“...and your daughter?” Stark asked then.

Ellaria stiffened, but then averted her gaze from Tyrion to look at him:

“Tyene was my firstborn, and the Lannisters took her from me. But at the same time, you took Cersei's firstborn. At least now that royal whore knows how I feel... thanks to you.”

Stark simply nodded in understanding.

“Now, I believe you have some questions for him,” the woman continued, beckoning with her head in Tyrion's direction.

“I do,” Stark replied, and Tyrion had never heard those two words pronounced more menacingly.

“Then I'll leave you to it,” Ellaria said, “In the meantime, we will set sail for Dorne. These waters aren't safe.”

With that, she left the room, but left the door opened. Tyrion didn't speak as Robb Stark moved to the entrance. Before closing the door, however, he beckoned with his head to the inside of the room, as if inviting someone to join them.

If Tyrion had been scared before, he was utterly terrified as Robb Stark's direwolf padded into the room.

He vaguely remembered the beast from his visit at Winterfell years ago. It had changed as radically as its master had.

It was almost as big as a horse now, having grown in height past its master's elbows. Its smokey grey fur was made even darker by the scarce light in the room, and its golden eyes were every bit as piercing and intimidating as its master's.

Said master closed the door and locked it, removing the key and tossing it on a nearby drawer. He then advanced on Tyrion, until he was right beside his massive wolf, sword still in hand.

“Where’s my sister?” he demanded.

Tyrion gulped before answering: “It's complicated-"

“Simplify it,” the other man growled, cutting his attempt to explain the situation short.

Tyrion knew he was going to die a drawn out and painful death if he didn't heed to the Northerner's requests in a timely fashion. It was better to start from the beginning and hope the Young Wolf's patience didn't run out before he could fully explain himself.

“Sansa was being abused and tormented every day. Every time you won a battle, Joffrey had the Kingsguard beat her, or publicly shame her, or both. It was getting worse by the day. She wouldn't have lasted long,” he started. Stark just stared at him with those terrifying blue eyes.

“You have to believe me when I say I cared for your sister. I hated how Joffrey treated her. I was her husband, after all.”

That was the wrong thing to say. Robb clenched his hand around the greatsword's handle, and his wolf let out a low growl, as if to underline the threat.

“I-I never touched her!” Tyrion was quick to add, “I swear by the Old Gods and the New, I have never laid a finger on her! Not once! You have to believe me, I was forced into this marriage, same as Sansa! My father-"

“I don't give a rat's ass about you and your father,” Robb hissed, “I asked you where my sister is. I want a straight answer, and I want it _now.”_

He turned the sword slightly, and the Valyrian steel caught the light in a sinister shine, doused in red.

Tyrion closed his eyes.

“I wanted her transferred to Casterly Rock, away from Joffrey, sage from his vicious whims," he croaked, "but I was betrayed. As soon as Sansa was out of the city, I was framed for her disappearance and arrested. I learned later that she never arrived at Casterly Rock.”

“You mean to tell me you don't know where my sister is?” Robb asked then, and Tyrion couldn't tell if his voice was broken by his unyelding rage or by the despair he must have felt at his sister being gone from him.

Tyrion propped himself up against the wall into a sitting position and rested his head against the wall: “I’m sorry,” he just said, and the words tasted bitter in his mouth, so much that he thought he souldn't have answered at all. What good was his empty apology to Sansa’s brother?

Robb didn't answer. His chest was heaving, his knuckles white around his sword's handle. And yet, he was not moving. His eyes were closed, and his mouth twitched.

It took a very long moment for Robb to relax his posture ever so slightly. His free hand found his wolf's fur, clasping it, as if to center himself. He hung his head, turning his back to Tyrion.

“I've killed your nephew,” Robb declared at last, opening his eyes again. The non-sequitur had Tyrion frown in confusion.

“He was a coward to his last breath. He begged and cried, he tried to bargain for his life, he even soiled himself. I ended that vermin with my bare hands. But before that, I had to go through a number of Kingsguards, and several Goldcloaks too.”

Tyrion looked at the menacing greatsword still in the King's hand, and all the blood caked on the blade. He couldn't help but think of his own brother.

When the Young Wolf had suddenly appeared in the arena, the sensible thing to do for Jaime would have been to run away, but Tyrion knew he hadn't. Even without seeing it, he just _knew._ Jaime had always been reckless, and even if Joffrey had more than deserved his fate, Tyrion knew Jaime would have never backed down.

Doubtless, Robb had gone through him too.

“I had nothing against those soldiers,” Robb continued, “just like I had nothing against the soldiers that were with your father when I ended his life. But I cut them all down. I didn't hesitate one moment to kill them all. And I would kill them all again, a thousand times over. I would have killed the entire Lannister army to get to Tywin, because he had orchestrated the deaths of my mother, my wife and my bannermen. And I would have done the same to get to Joffrey, for what he did to my sister and for the death of my father. For my family, and for the North, I will kill as many soldiers as I have to.”

As he spoke, Robb slowly advanced towards Tyrion, and then crouched in front of where he was sat, so their eyes were level:

“With that in mind, Lannister... do you think there's anything I wouldn't do to you, to get my sister back?” he finally asked, slowly raising his sword and pointing it at Tyrion's throat, just as his wolf cricled him to get closer to the Imp as well.

Tyrion had thought he was ready to die. That he had accepted his fate even before the trial, when Shae had been killed. He had thought death didn't scare him anymore. But in that moment, Robb Stark did.

“I told you the truth,” he said, never taking his eyes off Robb's, “I don't know where Sansa is.”

“I don't believe you,” Robb gritted in response.

“Then bring your sword down on my neck, or let your wolf tear me to shreds,” Tyrion replied, “It is what I deserve, after all. Sansa was my wife; she was under my protection and I failed her. I let Joffrey hurt her. I tried to help her and now she went missing because of it. You can rest assured, I will not beg for my life like Joffrey did. But I can't tell you what I don't know.”

Robb didn't answer for a long time, staring him down. Only after a long moment, did he lower his sword and rise to his full height. Tyrion didn't even take a breath of relief.

Robb turned towards a table to his left. He took out a chair and sat down.

“Then you're going to tell me what you _do_ know.”

***

Night had almost fallen when Robb and Grey Wind emerged from the room Tyrion was kept in. Robb wasn't sure if he was more angry or more desperate.

Tyrion had indeed told him all he knew about Sansa’s disappearance, and it was a tale that Robb didn't like one bit.

This Littlefinger individual that Tyrion had said to have entrusted Sansa to... he seemed like a combination of Joffrey’s remorselessness and Tywin’s wily manipulations, only even slimier and more disgusting. Exactly the kind of person he would love to introduce to Grey Wind.

The simple fact that Tyrion had chosen him to help sansa because he had been fond of their mother made the hair on the back of Robb's neck stand in revulsion. And given what Tyrion had said about Petyr Baelish's proficiency in politics and manipulations, Robb could safely guess what this man’s plan was after stealing Sansa.

Bran and Rickon were dead. Arya was missing. Jon had taken the black.

If Robb were to fall - and after the Red Wedding, that possibility had looked very likely - Sansa would become the last remaining child of Ned Stark. She would be the uncontested heir to the North.

_That_ was what Baelish wanted.

Sansa would again be a hostage. A pawn in someone else's quest for power.

Robb shook in impotent fury. Sansa was missing and he was stuck on a ship heading for Dorne, unable to go looking for her. He was no closer to helping his last remaining sister than he had been when he had left Winterfell to go to war.

...Or was he?

He suddenly realized something: for his plan to work, Littlefinger needed Robb to die. Sansa was of no use to him as long as Robb himself kept drawing breath.

He had already started foiling Lord Baelish's schemes simply by remaining alive.

It was a meager consolation, but one he desperately needed. Heartened, the Young Wolf allowed himself a small breath of relief. At the very least, Sansa was in less immediate danger now than she had been with the Lannisters.

Not that that was much of an improvement. He still needed to find his sister and make sure she was safe _for real,_ not the plaything of sadistic, spoiled brats or conniving and power-hungry lords.

Some steps above him brought him out of his musings. The noise moved forward, towards a porthole where a ladder led to the upper bridge. Soon, he saw someone climbing down the tatch.

It was Obara Sand.

“Dinner will be served shortly,” she told him without preambles as soon as she was down the last step, her hand still on the ladder.

“Thank you,” Robb simply answered.

“Maybe you should wash yourself before you eat,” she continued.

Robb looked down to himself. Obara's no-nonsense, blunt attitude was grating at times, but this time she definitely had a point: he was covered in blood from head to toe. He could definitely use a bath.

“I will,” he replied.

Obara didn't even deign him of an answer, climbing back up the ladder.

Robb took another deep breath. He needed to reorder his thoughts.

He moved to follow Obara upstairs. For now, there was precious little else he could do.

**King's Landing - the Red Keep**

Jaime's breaths were ragged and labored, his skin pale and covered in sweat. His eyes were squeezed shut and his entire face was contorted in a perpetual wince of pain.

In her rage, Cersei found it fitting.

She loved Jaime, but her love didn't absolve him of his faults. As a member of the Kingsguard - as the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard - he had sworn to lay down his life to protect his King. And he had failed to do so.

Joffrey was dead. That northern monster had come and taken him from her.

Cersei's fists clenched as she thought of Robb Stark. That barbaric boy who fancied himself a King had first slain her father and then, not satisfied, had come to King's Landing and brutally murdered her son as well.

Her firstborn son.

She had seen the corpse. For the first time, Pycelle had actually agreed with Qyburn on something: she should not have seen what the Stark boy had done to her child. “The Young Wolf has not been kind to the King, Your Grace,” Qyburn had stated, with a sympathetic expression on his face that Cersei had loathed.

But he had been right.

Cersei had had to close her eyes, focusing on her breathing to keep herself from vomiting right then and there.

Joffrey was unrecognizeable.

His head had been crushed like a grape. She had never seen anything like it. And that had only been the end of it: Joffrey's body had been covered in cuts and scratches, signs of Stark's cursed beast torturing her poor child like some lowborn criminal. Cersei had never felt such overwhelming despair... and such unyelding rage.

She didn't even want to mourn. All she wanted was to make the Starks pay in blood for what the Young Wolf had had the audacity to do.

Qyburn was already at work. Ser Gregor was stable, he had said. Not out of danger yet, but the initial impression was promising: whatever treatment Qyburn was putting him through, it was already countering the effects of that vile Martell's poisoned blade.

And then there was Jaime.

Like Ser Gregor, he was not out of danger yet. Robb Stark’s blow had been devastating, and both Qyburn and Pycelle had warned her that he might never recover completely.

She wasn't sure she cared one way or the other as she silently turned and left Jaime's room. Jaime should have either been dead, or not there at all.

He had insisted on keeping his white cloak. Insisted on remaining with the Kingsguard. Yet when it came down to it, to do what a Kingsguard was supposed to do, to lay down his life for the King, he failed miserably.

Robb Stark had gone through him as if he hadn't even been there. He had failed to be there for Joffrey. And now, he couldn't be there for her.

There was no one left to comfort her, now that she had lost her son. Jaime _was_ there, but he might as well have been dead. One blow, and Robb Stark had turned him into this unconscious, dying waste of space.

In the first hours after the massacre that the Young Wolf had perpetrated, Cersei had been screaming incessantly at Qyburn to save him. To work faster, to try harder. Now, Barely two days later...

Now, she couldn't really recall why she had wanted him to be saved so much.

It might have been because of what they had... or used to have. Or maybe, because she needed him after seeing what the Stark monster had done to Joffrey. But Jaime was as useless now as he had been against the Young Wolf.

She left the room, never looking back.

Jaime had failed Joffrey, and he had failed her. She didn't particularly care if he lived or died anymore.

There were other things she cared about right now.

Despite everything, a small smirk began to adorn her face as she made her way down the levels of the Red Keep, all the way to the dungeons. It turned in a full on grin as she entered the third cell down the second corridor.

As she entered, the prisoner raised her gaze defiantly, but Cersei saw that she could barely keep her head up, after having been starved of food and water for two days. It only made Cersei smile more.

Vile, traitorous girl of a vile, traitorous kin. She should never have set foot in the Capital.

Glaring at her, Tyene Sand struggled weakly against the chains holding her wrists tied to the ceiling in the center of the room.

Cersei merely scoffed at the girl’s helplessness: “This isn't how you envisioned your trip going, is it?” she asked. The other girl didn't answer, still glaring daggers at her.

“No, it isn't indeed,” Cersei continued, “You thought your dear father would kill Ser Gregor. You thought you would be celebrating right now. For finally avenging your aunt,” she added, slowly walking around her.

Tyene just kept scowling as Cersei made her way behind her. A moment later, Cersei's hands were on her shoulders and her mouth close to her ear: “Your father should have let the past stay in the past,” Cersei whispered.

Tyene shook in rage, but still didn't respond.

“Instead, your father was persistent,” Cersei went on, retreating from her and again circling her: "He plotted his little revenge, made his little allies, he thought he could strike at us without a care in the world... That was his first mistake. Then he decided to bring his family into the fold. That was his second mistake. And finally, his biggest mistake was to join forces with the Young Wolf.”

Cersei was once again in front of her. This time, her expression was furious.

The Queen's hand shot up, harshly slapping the girl: “It was you, wasn't it? You people brought Robb Stark into the city!” she screamed, striking Tyene again before grabbing her by the hair and forcing her to look her in the eye: “Your father has learned an important lesson the day of the trial. Robb Stark is a bit more stubborn, but he will learn the same lesson, eventually: If you go against the Lannisters, _you lose.”_

The Queen let go of the other girl's hair and took a step back. She would have loved to kill this rebellious little whore with her own hands, but she knew that would be a foolish move. Something Joffrey would do.

No, the smart move was to keep her alive. It was the best assurance she was going to get that Ellaria Sand wouldn't do anything stupid.

The Martells obviously couldn't be trusted, and Myrcella was in their grasp. But now, she had the perfect opportunity to get her back. She had just lost Joffrey to one brutish yokel out for vengeance; she was not about to lose Myrcella to another.

If Doran Martell wanted his brother's insubordinate spawn back, he'd better fall in line post haste. When he showed that he could be reasoned with, and only after he sent Myrcella back, would Cersei consider releasing this little snake.

Until then, she would have to offer Oberyn's bastard daughter the hospitality of the Black Cells.

Still... nobody said she had to be _kind_ about it.

“I would have loved to teach this lesson personally to your mother and sisters as well,” Cersei said, taking a few steps back, “but alas, they escaped like cowards along with their new pet wolf. Too bad... for you. It means you will have to face the consequences alone. You will pay for them as well.”

Finally, the little snake's tongue loosened: “If you plan on making me pay by forcing me to listen to your incessant prattling and gloating until I beg for mercy... I am glad they all escaped,” she scoffed, her voice hoarse after two days without water, but still defiant: “I wouldn't wish such a torture on my worst enemy.”

Cersei's grin only widened. _Feisty girl,_ she thought. Still defiant, despite having wasted away in the Black Cells without sustenance for two days.

Good. It would make it all the more satisfying to break her.

She moved to the door of the cell, opening it.

“Your sisters... One of them likes to fight with a whip, does she not?” she asked as a knight clad in the white cloak of the Kingsguard walked in, carrying a long bullwhip.

“Surely you learned something, about whips as well, watching her practice...” Cersei continued, thoroughly enjoying the flash of terror that briefly marred the Dornish girl's eyes at the sight of the man and its weapon:

“Maybe you can give Ser Meryn some pointers,” she concluded.

Tyene watched the Kingsguard for all of two seconds before turning to Cersei again: “Some pointers?” she jeered, “Are your men so incompetent they don't even know how to use a whip?”

Cersei's smile didn't fade; she didn't let the girl's words get to her: “You can talk all you want, little bastard. We'll see how long it takes for Ser Meryn to silence you.”

This time, Tyene didn't answer. Cersei held her gaze for a few more moments, before turning to leave: “Work conscientiously, Ser Meryn,” she ordered, finally leaving the room.

As she walked away, the sound of the first whiplash reached her ears. Then the second, and then the third. The fourth was accompanied by a pained whimper, and the fifth by a full-on scream.

Cersei grinned.

They had taken Joffrey away from her. She was going to take _everything_ away from them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when Cersei asked Oberyn to send that boat to Myrcella in Dorne? Yeah, she basically gave Robb and the Sand Snakes the keys of the getaway car, lol.
> 
> And thus, the Dorne plot commences. And you people have no idea how many times I rewrote this particular subplot to save it from canon. It was horribly, horribly frustrating and more than once I was tempted to just say fuck it and go with the useless thotpatrol the Sand Snakes had been reduced to in the show... but the sheer amount of wasted potential was something I just couldn't stomach. I mean... they engaged an actor like Alexander Siddig to literally just sit on a chair until he gets stabbed? Or Keisha Castle Hughes and Jessica Henwick, who are only there to make Euron Greyjoy look cool by comparison when he wrecks their asses?
> 
> No. Just... just no. I'm rewriting the fuck out of this thing.
> 
> This particular subplot has started to pretty obviously deviate from canon in this chapter already, but one thing is for sure: things in Dorne will be nothing like they are in the show.
> 
> Until next time!


	11. A Tale of Vengeance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of the latest events in King's Landing reach across Westeros... and beyond.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus, a new chapter is here. Little later than I hoped, but it's actually the longest chapter so far (even though nothing of substance happens in it :P). With this chapter, we officially move into Season 5 territory (though things will be very different, it's just to give you a rough idea of the time this occurs).

**The Eyrie**

As she carefully pulled the sewing needle to tighten the thread on her embroidery, Sansa still wondered, not for the first time, if her decision had been the right one. She wondered if she had ever made a single right decision in her life.

She had just lied for Lord Baelish’s sake. She had saved him from the consequences of Aunt Lysa's death.

Lysa was deranged, of that there was no doubt. She was consumed by jealousy. She had scared Sansa, even before her outburst at the Moon Door. She had scared her almost as much as Joffrey had.

But what Lord Baelish had done... How ruthlessly he had pushed her through the Moon Door, not the faintest trace of pain or remorse on his face... That had scared Sansa even more.

She didn't think things through when she was scared. And she barely remembered a time when she _hadn't_ been scared. That was why she had helped Lord Baelish, why she had lied for him. Because she was scared.

She meant what she had told Lord Baelish when he had questioned her about it: she had no idea what would have happened to her without his protection. She had arrived at the Erye under false pretenses, and if she had told them the truth, she had no idea what would have happened to her. Lady Hornwood had said she had nothing to fear from them, but Sansa hadn't believed her.

Other people had promised before that they would never hurt her. That she could trust them. She had believed them... and now her skin would forever bear the marks of the whip that had hit her every time Joffrey had felt frustrated. No, she would never believe such a promise ever again.

And so, Littlefinger had been set free. Her aunt's death would go unpunished, and Sansa was even more scared than before.

What if the Lords of the Vale somehow found the truth? That she had lied to protect Lord Baelish? What would they do to her?

She shook her head and tried to focus on her embroidering.

She was safe. There was no one else in the hall when Lord Baelish had pushed Lysa to her death. The lie would never be discovered.

Although, _another_ lie had been.

She had told the Lords the truth about their identity. She didn't even know why... Maybe because they would have been more likely to believe her more important lie if she coated it with a little bit of truth.

In King's Landing, she would have been beaten to death. Instead, the Lords of the Vale had been nothing but kind to her. She was safe here. Even if she had lied to them.

She had felt something strange when she had been called in to be questioned. She had been terrified of how Littlefinger and the other Lords would react, but she had also felt something else. Something she had never felt before.

She had felt like she had the power. Like she was in control, for the first time in forever. In that moment, nothing could have stopped her. Littlefinger wouldn't have been able to do anything about it. After all this time being abused and tortured, after all this time having no say in what happened to her, it had felt good to be given the chance to decide for herself. Even if she had ultimately made her decision out of fear.

“My lady?”

She jumped a little and nearly stabbed herself with the sewing needle at the voice calling her, and she hated herself a little for it. Even now, even in the Vale, the fright of Joffrey and his tortures scared her.

She turned, and saw Lord Royce at the door. His air of authority cowed Sansa even more.

“Y-yes, Lord Royce?” She timidly asked. “News from King's Landing have arrived,” Royce told her, and Sansa gulped past the sudden knot forming in her throat as a feeling of dread roiled through her.

It was the first time since she was in the Vale that news from King’s Landing reached her. It had to be something serious. It might mean the Lannisters were back on the offensive. _Please, let Robb be safe..._

Not privy to her sudden inner turmoil, Royce went on: “King Joffrey has been slain.”

This time, Sansa's eyes bulged and her mouth fell open.

“The King... slain?” she parroted.

“Yes, my Lady,” Royce confirmed, before the corner of his mouth twitched upwards: “by the Young Wolf.”

Sansa wasn't sure he had heard that right. But the look on her face must have given her disbelief away, as Lord Royce spoke again: "Your brother found a way to slip into the city unseen and killed the King in the streets, during a public appearance. They say the King in the North charged at the Kingsguard riding a gigantic direwolf and brandishing a Valyrian greatsword, and that he slaughtered hundreds of Lannister soldiers before killing Joffrey with his bare hands. Rumor even has it that the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, was also killed... I don't know how much of that is truth and how much is the fantasy of the smallfolk, but one thing is for sure: Joffrey Baratheon is dead.”

Sansa tried to reply, but her voice died in her throat.

_Robb has killed Joffrey..._

She looked down to the floor: “...and what of my brother?” she asked when she managed to recover slightly, though her voice still barely left her lips. She remembered Royce chastising her for it when he still only knew her as Alayne, when she was being questioned about Littlefinger and Aunt Lysa. This time, however, Lord Royce only smirked.

“He disappeared immediately as the deed was done. Vanished in the shadows, just as fast as he had appeared.”

Sansa let out a ragged breath before standing on shaky legs: “W-would you pardon me, my lord? I... I need to get some air...” she said.

“Of course my Lady. It must be a lot to take in all at once,” Royce replied, moving to the door and opening it for her.

Sansa started walking almost mechanically, as if transfixed.

_Robb has killed Joffrey..._

Her feet carried her to the inner courtyard. She barely even registered it. What she noticed was that she was shaking from head to toe.

She could picture it in her head, as if she was standing right there as it happened.

Joffrey striding confidently along the street, amongst his abject guards, all of them resplendent in their shining armours and spotless cloaks. And then a battle cry, and Robb is there, charging at them like an avalanche, Grey Wind at his side.

They try to fight him but it's no use. Her brother just _toys_ with them. Joffrey screams at his guards to kill him, but it's like commanding the leaves to stop falling from a dead tree. The first soldier falls, and then the second, and then the third, and then all the others until no one stands between Robb and his prey anymore.

The bastard tries to run, but Grey Wind pounces on him and pins him down. Joffrey is on the ground, completely at the mercy of Robb and his wolf, just like he had been at the mercy of Arya and Nymeria that day at the Trident, a lifetime ago. Only Robb won't content himself with giving him a scare like Arya did.

Joffrey is crying and pleading, every bit as pathetic as he had been with Arya, but her brother - Ned Stark's firstborn son - will not be moved. He stalks forward, speaking no words. Joffrey lets out a final scream as Robb brings his sword down, impaling him through his craven heart.

_Robb has killed Joffrey!_

Sansa started giggling. It was barely a chuckle at first, but it rapidly grew, until she erupted in a full, loud, hysterical laugh. Tears were in her eyes, but for the first time since she cared to remember, they were not tears of pain. They were tears of joy.

She fell down on her knees, unable to remain standing as the sweetest feeling of lightheadedness overcame her.

Robb had killed Joffrey! He had done it! He had avenged their father, their family! She was finally-

Sansa stopped laughing abruptly as that last thought died a terrible death: no, she was _not_ finally free.

She was trapped in the Vale, in the clutches of a man with no scruples and no heart, surrounded by suspicious Lords. And another beast, every bit as malicious as its spawn had been, still lurked in King's Landing.

She couldn't go home. After Theon Greyjoy, a man that had lived with her family for as long as Sansa remembered, a man that she had once considered a friend, had shown himself for the monster that he truly was, Ramsay Bolton, another monster and the son of a traitor, had taken over Winterfell and was methodically slaughtering every man, woman and child who even dared to whisper in favour of House Stark.

The North was in shambles, its people suffering because she, Sansa Stark, had insisted that her father accepted the role as Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon, so she could pursue her stupid dreams full of gallant knights and beautiful dames.

All of that was still happening. But now...

Now maybe, just _maybe,_ things could change. Maybe the North, and the Starks, could some day rise again.

Robb, her beloved elder brother, had done way more than just killing Joffrey. He had even done more than simply give her back some hope.

He had shown her that she had to raise her head. That she had to keep her faith, and that she had to keep fighting in any way she could.

She was a Stark of Winterfell. She was of the North, and she had to fight for it.

Winter was coming, but House Stark would see it through.

**Winterfell**

“He killed the King,” Harald Karstark muttered, clearly scared, pacing nervously around the Great Hall: “He penetrated all of their defences, snuck into the capital right under the nose of the entire Lannister army, butchered half of the City Watch and _killed the fucking King!”_

“You already said that,” the Master replied in a bored tone, twirling a dagger in his hands with his feet propped on the high table, “Three times.”

Lord Karstark slammed his hand down on the high table, making Reek jump in fear: "And I'll keep saying it, because you act as if it's a matter of no consequence!” he yelled, “Robb Stark has killed Joffrey Baratheon! The Lannisters have _lost!_ And you sit here, in the Great hall of _House Stark's_ ancestral seat, as if the Young Wolf won't come for _us_ next!”

The Master rolled his eyes: “The Lannisters _haven't_ lost. Yes, Robb Stark has apparently slain King Joffrey, well done there. Do you know what will happen now, Lord Karstark? Tommen Baratheon will be crowned King soon, if he hasn't been already. The Seven Kingdoms will mourn his brother for maybe another fortnight, and then they will carry on as if nothing had happened. And with due right: the Lannisters still have their army, and they still have their power. Nothing has truly changed."

“Do you know what _else_ will happen now, Lord Bolton?” Smalljon Umber replied acidly before Lord Karstark could reply, levelling the Master with a scathing glare: “The Young Wolf will not stop at avenging his father. He will seek to avenge the rest of his family as well. He will seek to avenge the Red Wedding and the death of his mother and wife! He will target House Frey and House Bolton, and all those who have sworn fealty to them after that accursed wedding!”

That seemed to get the Master's attention. Reek watched with growing fear as the bored expression left Ramsay Bolton's face and he slowly rose to his feet.

“You don't understand the lesson here, do you, my Lords?” he asked in a mellifluous tone. A tone that had Reek nearly soil himself: there was the man of his nightmares. The mouth twisted in a sick smirk, the demented glint in his eyes...

Ramsay Bolton was the most terrifying man in the world.

Karstark and the Smalljon, not privy to Reek's terror and never having witnessed his Master's true nature, just knitted their eyebrows in confusion.

“Joffrey Baratheon is dead, yet the Lannisters still hold the Seven Kingdoms. Because if you have someone else that can command the army, it doesn't matter if _one_ leader dies,” the Master continued, holding his knife aloof, “And that is true not just for the Lannisters, but for every army in the world. In fact, sometimes it’s even adviseable to remove a lacking leader, if the army works better with someone... less scared at its head.”

Lord Umber’s eyes bulged slightly at the veiled threat, and Lord Karstark turned to look at his surroundings as the Bolton guards in the room all took a small step forward, hands on their swords. Reek was so scared that his hands were trembling.

Slowly, both Lord Harald and the Smalljon took a step back from the high table. The Master sat back down.

“Now,” he started after getting comfortable again, “The Young Wolf has disappeared once more after murdering the King. It's his most annoying quality, he seems able to strike and disappear faster than his enemies can bat an eye. Which mean we must never blink.” he reasoned.

“What does that even mean?” Lord Karstark queried.

The Master gave him a condescending look and shrugged: “When the Young Wolf reappears, he will come here. So Winterfell must be garrisoned as heavily as possible. Lord Glover?” he called.

Robett Glover wordlessly took a step forward from where he was standing at the other side of the room.

“You will transfer two thousand of your men to Winter Town,” the Master ordered, “I want them here in a fortnight.”

“But...” Glover started started, but a silent glare from the Master silenced him.

“Yes, my Lord,” Glover muttered with a small nod, before turning to his previous spot. The Master then turned his attention back to the Smalljon.

“Umber, you will send half your men to Moat Cailin,” he ordered, “we need our southern border well patrolled.”

“Yes, my Lord,” the Smalljon answered, still a little aggressive but cowed enough by the earlier exchange that he dared not speak up again.

The Master pressed on, addressing all the other Lords and giving them orders to prepare against the return of the feared Young Wolf. Reek tuned out the rest of the meeting.

He was scared. He didn't know what to do.

If the King in the North was truly returning, this would be the end for him. If he tried to escape, the Master would hurt him until he begged to be killed. But if he stayed, and Robb Stark found him...

Theon Greyjoy had betrayed the King in the North. He had betrayed his brother and taken his house. He had killed people the King had grown up with. Reek wasn't Theon, but to the King's eyes it would make no difference. He was doomed.

That night, Reek dreamed: a pack of wolves was chasing him into the woods outside Winterfell. He was running as fast as his legs could carry him, but he already knew it was hopeless. He couldn't outrun a wolf, much less a pack of them, much less in their territory. Soon, he was surrounded.

“No... Please...” Reek begged, raising a hand towards the growling beasts, but it was no use. The first wolf attacked, and the others followed suit. Seconds later, he was being savaged and torn to pieces.

“Please! I'm sorry! I was wrong, I'm sorry!” Reek cried as the predators continued to feast on his flesh. It seemed as if his pleas were making them even more savage.

And then, a wolf bigger than all the others appeared. A direwolf, as big as a horse, its fur dark grey and its eyes a piercing gold.

Reek knew him. He knew that wolf.

“P-please...” Reek stuttered weakly one more time,with whatever forces he still had. Again, he was ignored.

The direwolf leaped forward, and his massive fangs clamped down on his throat.

He had woken screaming, and in turn had awoken the Master's dogs with his terrorized screeches. The dogs had started barking, awakening the rest of the castle.

In the morning, as punishment, the Master flayed part of his thigh.

Reek cried, screamed and despaired. Not only because of his punishment.

**The Twins**

He was too old for this shite.

“The Blackfish came at us from all directions,” Lothar whined, “we couldn't stop him!”

The Late Walder Frey leveled his son with a glare: “You had the castle, and the Blackfish only had a thousand men!” he raged, “Riverrun is one of the most impregnable keeps in all of Westeros! Any liquored-up cunt with half a clue on how to hold a sword could withstand a siege of a thousand men there!”

“Y-yes but... The Blackfish knows Riverrun like the back of his hand,” Black Walder interjected, “He knew some secret passages that we-"

He was silenced as his enraged father threw his goblet at him, striking him in the face. The old Frey patriarch knew he hadn't hurt his incompetent son: his silver goblet was no pillow, but his old age had made him too weak to be able to throw it hard enough to hurt anyone. It was frustrating.

Still, both the younger Freys shut their cunt mouths and looked down, ashamed and chastised.

“Pick it up,” Walder ordered, glaring at his son. Black Walder obeyed without a single word, before putting the cup back on the table, never looking his father in the eye.

“Now the Lannisters will think I'm a fool,” the old man snapped, “and I will have to go to them begging for their help to take back the castle that they had served to me on a platter!”

“We are sorry, Father...” Lothar stuttered.

“Get out of my sight before I make you even _more_ sorry,” their old father grunted. The two at least had the decency to avoid offering any more empty platitudes, as they left the room in a haste.

Walder sighed in exhasperation. _Fucking morons._

Now he needed the help of the Lannisters more than ever, and they were more unlikely than ever to give it, considering what the Stark boy had just done in the Capital.

All things considered, he wasn't so displeased to have all his men back at the Twins. Between Brynden Tully retaking Riverrun and the Young Wolf lurking in the shadows, it was better to hunker down and wait to see what happened next.

That goddamned Stark boy refused to fucking die. The little fucker was causing no end of trouble. Couldn't Roose Bolton have just stabbed him instead of taking his sweet time to gloat? Walder was actually _glad_ for Stark ending that idiot, damn them both to the darkest hell.

Unfortunately, that meant the boy was still very much alive, as Joffrey Baratheon - if that was his real name - had found out to his great personal cost.

Robb Stark being in King's Landing had been great news, though. At least that demon had left the Riverlands for now. Walder could only hope the Lannisters could finally take care of him once and for all. He was _not_ looking forward to meeting the Young Wolf again.

Son of a Tully bitch had put the fear of the Gods in half his sons, while the other half was simply too stupid to understand the gravity of the situation. He himself had had several troubles sleeping for a while after the Red Wedding: when the Young Wolf had risen against them, he had looked like something walking out of his worst nightmare.

The one silver lining in all of this was that they still had Edmure safe in the dungeons, and the Trout's son with Roslin. If all else failed, at least he had some leverage to bargain with the Young Wolf. Not that the demonic boy was _likely_ to want to bargain, but he was half Tully. Family, Duty, Honor and all that shite.

Walder sighed again. He half hoped that his old age would catch up to him before he had to deal with any of this.

**Sunspear**

Doran Martell seemed lost in thought as he sat in his wheeled chair on the ramparts and gazed at the open sea, but that was far from the case. He wasn't staring unseeingly in the distance; he was looking at the small ship slowly inching its way towards the harbour.

Oberyn had sent a messenger not long after entering King's Landing with Robb Stark. He had informed Doran of Tyrion Lannister’s arrest and his plans to participate in his trial by combat. Doran had sent off a reply post haste, but even as he was writing it, he already knew it wouldn't reach his brother in time.

And indeed, he had never heard from his brother again.

Oberyn had committed treason against the Crown when he had brought the Young Wolf in King's Landing. He had wanted to avenge Elia for twenty years, and in the end, he hadn't been able to, instead ending up dead at the hands of the very man he had sought to kill.

Doran had felt grief at the news, but also anger and frustration. He had always known his little brother's impulsiveness would get the better of him.

And then, his daughters and Ellaria had committed treason _again_ when they had stolen Tyrion Lannister away, with Tyene being captured in the process. Now Obara, Nymeria and Ellaria were bringing the Imp to Dorne... along with Robb Stark. The Crown's worst enemy.

_Fools._

He loved his nieces, he really did, but they seemed determined to ruin everything he was working for. Or maybe they simply didn't understand. Oberyn hadn't either.

Oberyn was a fighter. He tackled the obstacles head on. Doran, instead, played the long game. His way wasn't fast and it wasn't overt, but it allowed him to keep an eye on the bigger picture.

Doran sighed. What was he to do now?

Normally, Tyene would be his first priority, but now there was simply too much at stake. This entire situation was extremely delicate, and would require the most careful planning on his part.

Having the Young Wolf in his house could be an incredible advantage and a terrible hindrance at the same time. He had to tread cautiously.

A raven had arrived from King's Landing two days ago: the Queen Regent was beyond furious. She wanted to break Myrcella's betrothal to Trystane and wanted her daughter returned to her at once.

Doran had to find a way to avoid that, at all costs. He needed this betrothal, and he needed the Princess.

Myrcella had refused to leave her room for two days after news of the events of King's Landing had reached Sunspear, and soon she would be face to face with the man who had slain half her familly. On a human level, Doran could feel nothing but sympathy for her. But from a political standpoint, this was the opportunity of a lifetime.

“Is it them?”

His son walked up to him and joined him in gazing at the approaching ship. Doran didn't turn at Trystane’s voice, remaining pensive and unreadable: “Yes,” he replied simply, “It is them.”

After a beat of silence, Trystane spoke again: “Not _just_ them, however...”

Doran, once again, answered laconically, never giving anything away: “No, not just them.”

“Meeting the Young Wolf should be interesting,” Trystane prodded him again after another pregnant pause, “He seemed to have made quite the impression on Uncle Oberyn.”

Doran knew his son was trying to pry something off him, to understand what he thought about all this. But the Prince of Dorne liked to keep his cards close to his chest.

He leaned back in his chair: “He did... Sadly, he is bound to make quite an impression on our guest too,” he considered, his mind still on the princess.

This time, Trystane huffed in mild annoyance, not replying.

Now it was Doran's turn to prod: “Where is she now?” he asked.

“Where she always is, as of late,” Trystane muttered, still slightly annoyed, “In her chambers. Crying.”

Doran gave a half shrug: “Ellaria has taken the Imp, while the Young Wolf was running rampant. Perhaps Myrcella's uncle will be able to console her,” he mused.

“I certainly hope so,” Trystane replied, “I definitely can't.”

Finally, Doran turned to face his son: “Can't, or won't?”

Trystane seemed irritated, and refused to answer.

Doran gave him an oblique look: “I know that I ask a lot of you,” he said, “but I can't do my part if you don't do yours. Robb Stark has set things in motion earlier than I had planned, but he also laid a good foundation for us to build on. We need to seize the opportunity.”

Trystane seemed to deflate. He nodded slightly, looking back at the approaching ship: “I know, Father,” he said, squeezing his hand, “I won't disappoint you.”

**Pentos**

Varys allowed himself to relax as he slowly prowled the terrace. He liked Pentos very much, and he especially enjoyed the company of the man currently hosting him, that was walking beside him. Illyrio Mopatis was one of very few people he knew who were really worth talking to.

“So,” the Pentoshi magister started, “Are the rumors true?”

“They are,” Varys replied, “There is a new Kingslayer in Westeros. And he almost killed the old one in his haste to put an end to Joffrey's reign.”

“Almost?” Illyrio queried, pulling his head back slightly, “Jaime Lannister is not dead?”

“Not _all_ the rumors are true, my friend,” Varys answered with a small smile, “The Golden Lion still lives... if barely. The Young Wolf was not there for him, he was there for Joffrey. He only swatted Lord Commander Jaime aside like a fly before chasing after the King. Still, it was enough to gravely wound Ser Jaime. He might die still.”

“Hmm,” Illyrio hummed noncommittantly. They walked in silence for a bit after that.

“I have to confess I am slightly afraid, my good friend,” Varys said after a while, "Joffrey was a hen heart, but if people didn't fear him, they at least feared his cruelty. Without him, the Realm could fall into chaos long before _she_ comes.”

Illyrio looked pensive: “Your fears might not be unfounded, Varys. I hear that Tommen Baratheon is a young boy with a kind heart, but little experience. The Game of Thrones will destroy him.”

“It will,” Varys agreed, “The time of the Baratheons is over. The Seven Kingdoms need a new ruler. A _true_ ruler, not a boy who will do everything his idiotic, vicious mother will tell him to do.”

“Then it is time?” Illyrio asked.

“It is time,” Varys replied gravely. Then his tone became even more serious: “You have watched her from afar for many years, and even up close for a while. Do you believe she will be up to the task?"

The Magister shrugged: “I believe she will be. With the right guidance, of course. I will arrange for your departure tomorrow.”

Varys nodded silently, and silence returned between them, until a servant approached them with two cups of wine on a tray. Illyrio took them both and dismissed her with a shooing motion.

“And what of the Wolf?” he asked, offering one of the cups to Varys: “Will he become a problem?"

Varys took the cup, but didn't drink: “I don't think so. Not for the moment, at least. He wants justice for his father, and his family. He wants to, in his own words, ‘litter the South with Lannister dead'. Reasonable, given the lenghts Tywin Lannister went to in his quest to stop the Northern Army, wouldn't you say?”

“Reasonable indeed,” the Magister agreed, taking a sip of his wine, “but there is still the issue of his title. _The King in the North?”_ he said, a hint of warning in his tone.

Varys drank as well, making a small, appreciative sound: “True, that issue remains,” he acquiesced, “but for now, Robb Stark does not concern me. He could potentially become a serious problem in the future, but if we work well, and if he proves to be reasonable enough, we might even make a powerful ally out of him.”

Illyrio’s worries seemed assuaged at his words. He nodded with a smirk: “Well then, may the gods assist us in our quest,” he said, raising his cup: “Long live the Queen.”

Varys raised his own wine: “Long live the Queen,” he repeated with a smile of his own, and they both drank.

**Meereen**

It felt as if her certainties were being tested every day.

First, she had been forced to question her control over her own sons when the charred bones of an infant girl had been dropped at her feet. Now Drogon was nowhere to be found, whilst Rhaegal and Viserion languished in the catacombs underneath the Great Pyramid.

She had been forced to confine them there. There had been no other choice. She didn't want to be _that_ kind of queen, she didn't want to rule through fear. But chaining her dragons away had felt like denouncing a part of herself. Her very nature.

And now, another blow had come.

Ser Jorah was a spy. Had always been a spy, ever since they first met. A spy of the Usurper.

She had exiled him without a second thought. What else was she supposed to do? A less merciful sovereign would have had him executed. But it had broken her heart to watch him lower his head in complete defeat and slowly turn to leave. When the doors of the throne room had closed behind her retreating form, she had felt like crying.

The life of a ruler was a difficult and thankless one. And sometimes she felt like she was being crushed under the weight of it all.

Shuffling noises outside her door brought her out of her despondent thoughts. She raised from her seat as Barristan Selmy surrendered his weapons to two Unsullied guards just outside the entrance and was admitted into her chambers.

“Ser Barristan,” she greeted him.

“News from Westeros, Your Grace,” he said, a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice that perked Daenerys' curiosity. She prompted him to continue with a gesture of her hand.

“The Young Wolf has resurfaced once again. And this time, he has exacted his vengeance. Joffrey Baratheon is no more.”

Her eyebrows rose a little.

This was... sudden, to say the least. As far as she knew, of the Five Kings that had risen after the Usurper's death, Joffrey Baratheon was arguably the one who held the most power. He ruled from the Iron Throne and had the greatest army at his beck and call, courtesy of his mother's family.

In fact, the Lannisters had functionally won the War of the Five Kings for him: Renly Baratheon had been slain by his own brother Stannis, who in turn had suffered a crushing defeat in the Battle of Blackwater Bay, when he had attempted to lay siege to King’s Landing. And then, Robb Stark had been betrayed by his own bannermen in the so-called ‘Red Wedding', losing his entire army. That had only left Balon Greyjoy, whose meager forces were all on the back foot, being systematically repelled everywhere they had struck.

But now, Robb Stark had managed to take Joffrey's life?

“How?” she asked.

Her sworn sword proceeded to recount her what he had learned: Robb Stark had managed to sneak into the Capital unseen, and had single-handedly taken on both the Kingsguard and dozens of soldiers of the City Watch, before chasing down the False Stag and finishing him off together with his direwolf. And then, he had disappeared again as if he had never been there.

It was a rather incredible deed. She didn't think any of the great warriors she had ever met would have been able to pull off something like that on their own. Not Daario Naharis, not her beloved Khal... no one. Robb Stark was a man full of surprises.

“Thank you, Ser Barristan,” she said, dismissing the old knight. Barristan bowed slightly and left the room, leaving Daenerys alone with her thoughts.

She rose from her seat and walked to the balcony. Another King was dead. This would change everything in the Seven Kingdoms once again. House Lannister had just learned, very painfully, that they were not invincible. And Robb Stark seemed far from being done.

The Young Wolf was an interesting character indeed. She had to admit to herself that her impression of him had changed quite a bit as the news of his exploits trickled through the East. Or at the very least, it had changed more than her opinion of the other false kings of Westeros.

At first, of course, she had disliked him. The son of the traitor Ned Stark, named after the Usurper himself? He had rubbed her the wrong way simply for what he represented.

However, while his background was rather hateful, she had been prepared to admit that his motivations were anything but.

The Baratheons were killing each other for a throne that was not theirs, and Balon Greyjoy was just a glorified pirate, merely doing what he knew best: reaving and pillaging. Not Robb Stark, though. Robb Stark was fighting for his family. To save his sisters and avenge his father.

He wanted vengeance, _justice,_ not power. Unlike the Baratheons, he hadn't even proclaimed himself King. His bannermen - his people - had chosen him to lead them, both in the war and after it.

She could respect that. She had always strived to be a worthy leader, someone that the people would choose to govern them without being forced to. And Robb Stark's bannermen clearly considered him such a worthy leader.

It was also rather impressive how his enemies seemed entirely unable to defeat him. From what she kept hearing, the Young Wolf had won every battle he had ever fought, forcing several much more seasoned opponents to keep giving ground.

Until one of them got fed up and resorted to betrayal.

News from Westeros were few and far between, and it was often only partial bits of information that arrived this far East. At first she hadn't known that the Young Wolf had survived the infamous Red Wedding.

When the news of the massacre had reached her, she had not felt the slightest bit of satisfaction. Instead, she had been surprised to feel a tinge of sadness: As it turned out, Robb Stark’s mother and wife had died before his eyes. She remembered thinking that Ned Stark had deserved his fate for his betrayal of her family... but she had never wanted his son to be forced to watch as his family was butchered. Sons should not have to pay for the sins of their fathers.

She had also felt anger.

All else aside, Robb Stark was clearly a great general. It would have been... interesting to meet him on the battlefield. Perhaps, she could have finally made him taste defeat. But Tywin Lannister seemed to have deprived her of this chance.

It had been another month before she had learned that was not the case. The Northern Army had been annihilated, but Robb Stark was still very much alive and kicking. And kicking even harder than before, it seemed.

His victories on the battlefield had earned him the moniker ‘The Young Wolf’, and also the fear and respect of many soldiers and commanders, not limited to his own forces. Many tales were told about him: he was said to ride into battle on a giant direwolf, and to change into a wolf at night, howling at the moon and terrorizing his enemies. He was said to be impossible to kill.

She was surprised to find out that apparently, there was some truth in these tales.

After the Red Wedding, Robb Stark had wandered in the Riverlands and then the Crownlands, slowly making his way to King's Landing and killing Lannister soldiers left and right. And apparently he was... _changed,_ now. As strong and as fast as a direwolf, invulnerable and unstoppable.

It was tempting to dismiss that part as a ministrel's embellishment, but if he really had killed all those soldiers on his own, it had to be true.

She didn't even find it so hard to believe: after all, she herself had walked into a fire and come out of it with three dragons. If she couldn't be killed by fire, it wasn't impossible that Robb Stark couldn't be killed by war.

If what Ser Barristan had told her was true, Joffrey Baratheon's final moments were almost symbolic: Robb Stark's wolf chasing him down and sending him towards his master, almost like a trap, almost like a hunt. In the end, the Young Wolf had indeed caught his prey.

She smiled. She wouldn’t hold Joffrey Baratheon responsible for his father's crimes, but she had heard a lot about him: the Usurper's son had plenty of crimes of his own to answer for.

He was a cruel, vicious fool of a king. He was a coward who had hidden under his mother's skirt when his uncle had besieged King's Landing. He ruled with fear and killed for fun. He was Viserys come again, or maybe even worse.

He was everything she despised in a ruler. Everything she would avoid to become at all costs.

A small smile graced her lips as she poured herself a cup of wine and walked back to the window.

It was one of her favourite spots in the Great Pyramid. It faced west, where her home was.

Yes, Robb Stark was a very fascinating character indeed. And thanks to him, one of the most vicious, terrible kings to ever sit the Iron Throne was now in a grave. Westeros was now a better place for it.

She smiled again, and raised her cup in a silent toast to a man she would very much like to, one day, be able to get the measure of with her own eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several new characters have just entered the story... Let me know what you think!


	12. Snakes in the Grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robb, Tyrion and the Sand Snakes arrive in Dorne.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone. Remember when I last updated the story? Back when the virus apocalypse was not a thing? Yeah, good times. I left my laptop at my parent's house and wasn't allowed to go and get it because of the quarantine. So this chapter was written entirely on my phone. Welp...
> 
> In other news, this chapter marks the beginning of the new and (hopefully) improved Dorne sideplot of this fic. Let me know what you think!

**Sunspear**

She could see the docks from the windows in her quarters. She had always loved the sea, and after talking to Prince Doran about it once, he had arranged these chambers for her as a gift.

Now, she could see the ship inching towards the dock, and the gangplank being brought to the pier. Now, she hoped her quarters were on the other side of the castle, facing away from that accursed ship.

She averted her gaze as soon as the anchor dropped. All she wanted to do was sit in a corner and cry.

Why was _that man_ coming to Dorne? Why hadn't he gone back north?

He had never stopped! He had killed her grandfather, then her uncle Jaime, and finally, Joffrey - the King he had set out to destroy. He had _won!_ What more did he want?

She walked away from the window right as the first sailor reached for the gangplank. She didn't want to see him, even if it was at such a distance that she would barely recognize him.

She went back to her bed and sat there instead, dejected and despondent. She wanted to... she didn't even know _what_ she wanted.

She wanted to go back, in a way. Not back home, not really... Maybe back in time to her first few months in Dorne. Everything had been so simple back then. The war had been so far away, and everything in her life had been perfect and beautiful. She should have known it wouldn't have lasted.

She didn't know how much time had passed, when a servant came to fetch her. Prince Doran was requesting her presence in the Great Hall. It didn't take a genius to work out _why._

Very well. If she was going to be the future Princess of Dorne, she better start to act like it.

It was time to receive their guest. To show him she wasn't afraid of him. Dorne was her home now, and she would not be scared in her own house by some warmongering Northern rogue.

***

He was already there when she arrived, and she lingered on the doorstep for a moment to take a better look at him. He was standing tall and proud in the middle of the Great Hall, holding Doran and Trystane’s inquisitive looks from where they sat, opposite from him. He wore white trousers, sand colored boots and a matching tunic that went down almost to his knees. He didn't appear to be carrying any weapons, but he looked like he simply _didn't need them. _She almost couldn't reconcile this angry man with the fair-looking young boy she remembered from Winterfell all that long ago.

Robb Stark now sported a closely cropped beard that made him look older, and the handsome lines of his face were drawn taut, harsher than she recalled. Even through his loose tunic, she could see his muscles had grown as well. He had been muscular before, but now he looked like a true, battle-hardened warrior.

Then, before she could move or otherwise make her presence known, muffled steps resounded on the marble floor, and the biggest wolf she had ever laid eyes upon padded to the Northerner's side.

Myrcella’s eyes bulged as a rush of fear creeped down her spine: if Robb Stark had become scarier, his direwolf had become terrifying. It had grown to be a hulking monster almost the size of a horse, reaching in height well past its master's elbows, a majestic, lethal animal. Its fur was a beautiful smokey grey, and its honey-colored eyes were alert and screaming danger. It looked both graceful and lethal. Just like its master.

But she would not show fear in front of him. She had to be brave.

Myrcella swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat and took a deep, shuddering breath to center herself before making her presence known by silently but pointedly walking up to Trystane and sitting at his side. Her betrothed smiled at her and took her hand in his, grounding her further. She immediately felt better.

_This is my home now. He can't hurt me. I am safe here,_ she thought, her eyes traveling among the guards that were lining the walls, ready to pounce on the Northerner at the faintest sign of aggression.

It was only then that she noticed the other people in the room. She had given so much attention to the so-called Young Wolf that she hadn't even noticed he hadn't come alone.

Her uncle Tyrion was almost as different from her memories as Robb Stark was, a bushy beard adorning his face and a haunted look in his eyes. Still, when he laid eyes upon her, he smiled openly, almost as if relieved to see her.

She offered him a kind smile in return. She didn't know exactly what had happened in King's Landing in the days that had led up to Joffrey's death, but they had said Tyrion had been arrested on charges of treason and sentenced to death?

Surely there must have been a mistake. The simple fact that Doran had not ordered his arrest as soon as he had stepped foot on Dorne should be proof enough of that, but... Robb Stark was walking free as well. He was right there in Doran's solar, completely unrestrained and even flanked by his direwolf!

Myrcella knew that, traditionally, Dorne had always remained neutral in the dealings of the Seven Kingdoms. They hadn't intervened in Robert's Rebellion, and they hadn't intervened in the War of the Five Kings, but this should be different. She was betrothed to the future Prince of Dorne, and Robb Stark had slain at least three members of her family! Shouldn't that count for something!?

To the right of Stark and Uncle Tyrion stood Obara, Nymeria and Ellaria Sand.

She had met Ellaria only in passing on a couple of occasions before, and all she had gotten from her was detatched coldness and thinly veiled hostility.

Obara had also always been distant and difficult to connect with, but at least she had never looked at her with the contempt that Ellaria always reserved her. Still, Prince Oberyn's eldest was always more interested in martial training, sparring and fighting, rather than engaging in any kind of conversation or social activity with her. She now stood a little further behind Ellaria, and in her hands she held what looked to be a sword. A really big one, very nearly as long as she was tall, covered by a scabbard made of grey pelt.

Of the three women, Nymeria had been by far the friendliest, often smiling and always soft spoken, but Myrcella wouldn't pretend to know her all that well either. Still, it was slightly jarring to look at her now: jaw clenched, posture tense, she was the picture of nervousness.

In fact, all three women looked nervous, angry even, and seeing them like that was making her tense too, as if that Northerner and his wolf weren't doing a marvelous job at that already.

“Robb Stark, the King in the North,” Doran introduced, breaking the tense silence: “meet the Princess Myrcella Baratheon, my son's betrothed.”

Stark's eyes zeroed in on her and narrowed slightly. Myrcella felt uncomfortable at the intensity of the scrutiny, but she refused to budge: “Lord Stark,” she nodded scathingly, refusing to address him by his supposed royal title.

“Lady Baratheon,” the Young Wolf replied in kind. The undertone of contempt as he pronounced her surname made her bristle.

Tyrion apparently sensed the trouble, and was quick to try and diffuse the situation: “Myrcella,” he called, “it does me good to see you again. Are you well, niece?”

“Very well, Uncle,” she responded, “It does me good to see you as well... though in questionable company.”

If Stark was at all perturbed by the jab, he didn't show. Tyrion, on the other hand, had a troubled expression on his face.

“Nieces, Ellaria, I will speak with you later. You are dismissed.”

Doran's voice was calm, but left no room for any argument. The two sisters bowed and left immediately. Ellaria hesitated for a long moment, her eyes almost glaring at her Prince, before she curtseyed and left as well.

Doran's gaze returned to Robb Stark as soon as Ellaria was out of the door. There was a long moment of silence as the Prince of Dorne and the so-called King in the North seemed to size each other up. To Stark's side, his wolf seemed nervous. The beast had its eyes fixed on Doran, and was keeping its head low as if preparing for an attack. Its master must have noticed, as he brushed his hand at the base of its neck, caressing the wolf for a moment as if to soothe him.

“So. The famed Young Wolf graces Dorne with his presence,” Doran started, finally breaking the silence, “And the Imp of Casterly Rock as well.”

“Prince Doran,” her uncle responded, “it's a great honor-"

“Would you like to sit?” Doran asked gesturing to the plush couches, cutting her uncle off. It came out more like a command than a question. Uncle Tyrion shut his mouth immediately and moved silently to the couch to his left, but the Northerner did not: “If it's all the same to you, I'd rather remain standing, Prince Doran,” he answered.

Doran gave a small shrug as he took a sip of his wine, before changing the subject: “They tell me you refused to surrender your weapons to my men,” Doran inquired, looking Stark dead in the eye.

“Life has taught me to be wary of people who want me unarmed, especially strangers,” the Young Wolf replied, his tone not hostile, but definitely guarded: “And I am very attached to my sword. It is a prized family heirloom.”

“Yet you agreed to leave it with my nieces...” Doran noted, obviously referring to the big sword Obara was holding earlier.

“I didn't like it, but I understand the circumstances,” Stark answered without stumbling, “Besides, I have come to know your nieces in the last months, Prince Doran. They are no longer strangers to me.”

“Ah, yes. Your lovely boat trip from King's Landing to Dorne, of course... and obviously, the events that preceded it.”

The direwolf shifted slightly, pushing its front paws a little further apart. Robb Stark’s hand, still lingering on its back, closed into its fur. Whether it was to get him ready to pounce or to warn him not to, Myrcella didn't know.

And that terrified her.

Her uncle felt once again compelled to interject: “Prince Doran, if I may-"

“No, you may not,” Doran interrupted him, again cutting him off: “Dorne traditionally doesn't meddle in the affairs of the other Kingdoms, but a fugitive from the Crown seeking refuge under my roof is something unprecedented that puts us all in a very delicate position. So be silent, and thankful that you are not already in chains, Tyrion Lannister.”

Myrcella shifted her gaze from her uncle to Doran and back, her eyes wide.

So... it was true? Was... was uncle Tyrion a traitor? No, it had to be a misunderstanding...

“Both of us are fugitives from the Crown, Prince Doran,” Stark pointed out as her uncle quickly backpedaled.

Doran squinted at the so-called King in the North: “Indeed,” he said noncommittantly.

“And where does that leave us?” the Northerner asked then, raising an eyebrow.

Doran leaned back in his chair with an enigmatic smirk: “As I said: in a very delicate position.”

A pregnant moment of silence followed. Stark's wolf never took its eyes off Doran, it's master's hand still clutching its fur as if to hold it in place.

“I can leave Dorne immediately, if that helps matters,” Stark proposed, and Myrcella almost sagged with relief at his words. She didn't want to be in the same room as him for one second longer.

But Doran rebuffed him: “You will do no such thing,” he said, “not before we have discussed the recent events.”

Many little things happened at his reply. Stark's wolf shifted again, still holding its gaze on the Dornish prince. Its master gave Doran an oblique look that almost seemed to mirror the wolf's. And Myrcella felt black rage pooling in her heart.

_Discussed the recent events? _What was there to discuss?

She had had enough of this. She wasn’t going to keep silent one second longer. To hell with manners and propriety, she would not have it!

“This wretched Northerner doesn't belong here! He has slaughtered half my family,” she seethed, beseeching Doran's gaze, “He killed the King-"

“Joffrey was no King of mine,” Stark had the nerve to say, interrupting her: “the little _bastard_ thought he could have my father executed on a whim and then expect the North to fall in line and lick his boots. That was _never_ going to happen.”

Myrcella rose to her feet, her hand slipping away from Trystane’s: “Your father was a traitor!” she exclaimed, almost shouting the last word.

It was clear that Stark was enraged by the accusation, but he kept himself in check. Myrcella didn't know if it was his military discipline that allowed him to not take the bait or what else, but the man simply tilted his head a little, before answering: “Are you sure you want to bring up that particular matter right here and now, _Princess?”_ he said, his teeth almost grinding together.

Myrcella was left stunned. She couldn't believe the audacity of this man. Was he really going to try and _blackmail_ her into silence!? Threatening her with what his father had supposedly found that had cost him his head!?

Well, he had another thing coming!

She was just about to walk right up to him and slap him across the face, his enormous wolf be damned, when Trystane’s hand closed around her wrist as he silently restrained her.

The next few moments were as tense as a pulled bowstring. Myrcella’s eyes were fixed on the Northern King’s, almost trying to will him into spontaneous combustion, her hands itching to wrap around his throat. But none of that happened. She stood there, breathing heavily, clenching her fists, and refusing to blink first.

It was Doran who diffused the situation.

“Perhaps we should continue this conversation in private,” the Prince said unperturbed, addressing the Northerner. He then calmly turned to her uncle: “Lord Tyrion, I'm sure you and Myrcella have many things to tell each other as well. Areo and my son will escort you to her chambers.”

Immediately, Areo Hotah stepped forward, his enormous spear hitting the floor with a dull thud. Only then did Trystane release her, but only to place his hand on her shoulder: “Come, love,” he said soothingly.

It took Myrcella a long moment and a supreme effort to rein herself in, but eventually, she relented. Silently, she stormed off, not before sending one last glare to the supposed King in the North. Only when she was out of the door, the heavy steps of Areo Hotah and the lighter ones of her uncle and her betrothed behind her, did she let the first, angry tears slip down her cheeks.

***

Doran Martell rubbed him the wrong way.

He wasn't openly hostile, quite the opposite, in fact. And even if he was, Robb would have understood where he came from: his presence in Sunspear, along with Tyrion Lannister's, had the potential to be an endless source of problem for the Prince of Dorne. No, it was something else that made Robb wary.

Doran was evasive, but in a way that made him look like he wasn't. A smooth talker, trying to bait him with honeyed words. The difference between him and the Martells he had met so far, legitimate and bastards alike, couldn't be more jarring.

And he wasn't the only one whose suspicions Doran had aroused.

Robb had noticed immediately that Grey Wind was nervous, as soon as they had entered the Great Hall. The moment the direwolf had laid eyes on the two Dornish Princes, his hackles had started rising.

Robb knew what it meant: his wolf was sensing danger. He didn't trust these people. And Grey Wind was an excellent judge of character.

He had proven that before, with the Freys, right before the Red Wedding. Back then, he had been almost impossible to calm down. As soon as they had reached the Twins, Grey Wind had become a growling, almost unapproachable ball of nerves. Robb had dismissed his behaviour back then, and it had cost him everything. He was not going to make the same mistake again.

Now, Grey Wind was being nowhere near as aggressive as he had been at the Twins, but he was definitely tense and uneasy. When Robb put a hand on his back, to everybody else in the room it had looked like a soothing motion, a gesture to calm his pet wolf down and stop him from causing a scene. It wasn't.

It was to let him know that he had received his warning.

A quick look around the room and he had taken stock of all the guards and the weapons present. Doran and Trystane Martell were not armed, but everone else was. Twelve guards were lining the walls, and a massive, dark-skinned man holding a spear was standing right next to Doran.

At least there were no balconies from where people could shoot crossbows at him. In his experience, that was always a good thing.

He was unarmed, and when Doran had dismissed his nieces, they had taken his weapons with them. It wasn't much of a problem against thirteen men, but there was no telling how fast reinforcement could come.

He hoped it wouldn't come down to a fight. But ‘Princess' Myrcella was not helping in that regard.

In fairness, he probably should have kept some things to himself instead of letting his mouth run unchecked, but people - especially _Lannisters_ \- calling his Lord Father a traitor infuriated him beyond words.

Tempers were high, Grey Wind was ready to pounce, and the guards all had their hands on their swords. Thankfully, Doran stopped things from escalating by sending the girl away with Tyrion, her betrothed and the big guard.

That, at least, meant he didn't want things to spiral either. But what _did_ he want, truly?

Once the two lovers had exited the room with Tyrion and the big man in tow, Doran crossed his hands in his lap: “Your pardon if I caused you discomfort, Your Grace,” he said, “But Myrcella deserved to be present. I speak for Dorne and I will not take a side in the matters between the North and the Crown, but that also means I must be impartial.”

“I understand,” Robb assured him, and he truly did. He also understood now that Doran Martell was playing some sort of waiting game. Waiting for what, exactly, remained to be seen.

There was a pause, in which the two sized each other up, before Doran spoke again: “You seem nervous, Your Grace,” he considered, “I assure you, you have no reason to be. Like I said, Dorne will not interfere in the quarrels of the other realms.”

“And I believe you,” Robb said, even if he wasn't sure that was really the case. Still, better try to be tactful for now: “However, Prince Doran, the thoughts of the ruler are often inherently different from those of the people...”

Doran tilted his head to one side.

“You say that Dorne is now, and will remain, a neutral realm,” Robb continued, “but you cannot ask your people to remain neutral in their hearts as well.”

The Prince leaned back in his wheeled chair, narrowing his eyes and bringing his joined hands in front of his mouth in a pensive gesture.

“You are wise beyond your years, King Robb,” he praised, making Robb nod in acknowledgement. “It is true. I cannot ask that of every man and woman of Dorne... as my brother and his three eldest have aptly demonstrated.”

So, they had finally reached the core issue. Robb's hand tightened in Grey Wind's fur ever so slightly.

“I have decided that I will personally travel to King's Landing to retrieve my brother's bones,” Doran informed him. “I will depart in the morrow. I would ask you to remain in Dorne as my honored guest until my return.”

Robb frowned. For a moment, he was tempted to refuse the offer outright.

What was there to discuss? If Doran cared so much about Dorne remaining neutral in the War of the Five Kings, he should have already put both him and Tyrion on a ship and sent them away. Hells, he shouldn't even have allowed them to disembark in the first place. Instead, he wanted him to stay to ‘discuss matters’.

He could speak of neutrality all he wanted, Robb knew it was all lip service. His son was betrothed to Cersei's daughter. He was tied to the Lannisters even worse than Walder Frey was!

He probably hesitated too long, because Doran spoke again: “As I said before, we are all of us in a delicate position, and we need to thread carefully. I would like to have a longer conversation with you and discuss things more thoroughly, but for now, my family has to take precedence. I don't even know if my niece is alive in the Red Keep's dungeons or if her body is rotting next to my brother's.”

The _thanks to you_ remained unsaid, but Robb heard it anyway. And there was the problem: Doran had phrased it as a request, but Robb knew it wasn’t one that he could really turn down. The Dornish prince wasn't wrong either: Oberyn had condemned himself, but Tyene wouldn't have been captured if not for him turning the trial into a massacre.

And disregarding all that... _could_ Robb really refuse Doran's request?

He had agreed to come to Dorne hoping that Oberyn and his daughters' visceral hatred for the Lannisters was shared by the rest of their family. He wasn't sure if that was the case or not, and Doran Martell appeared to be much more calculating and distrustful than he had expected, but could he actually turn around and leave if he wanted to?

He could take out the guards in the Great Hall without problem. Leaving the palace, and then Sunspear, and then Dorne, was another matter entirely. They even still had his weapons.

There were also other things to consider: yes, Doran's son was betrothed to a Lannister... but somehow, Robb suspected things weren't really as they seemed. Doran was hiding something, Robb could feel it. But was he hiding things only from him?

There was no love lost between House Martell and House Lannister. The death of Elia Martell and her children at the hands of Tywin Lannister's mad dog was still a bleeding wound, if Oberyn's actions - and his paramour's, and his daughters' - were anything to go by.

The Game of Thrones was all about schemes and ruthlessness. What if Trystane Martell and Myrcella Baratheon's betrothal was just another bold move from another cunning player?

Maybe it was wiser to wait. At the very least, if it came to that, it would be easier to escape while Doran was away from Sunspear, presumably taking a good chunk of the palace guards with him.

Still, it would also be better if he could cover his bases a little.

“I will gladly accept your offer, Prince Doran...” Robb deliberated at last, “...on one condition.”

Doran narrowed his eyes. He clearly didn't like this caveat, but he gestured to Robb to continue.

“Tyrion Lannister is my prisoner. He will remain in my custody.”

Doran seemed to be frozen by those words. He didn't flinch, his eyes didn't bulge, but he stopped moving entirely. It almost seemed he had even stopped breathing.

There it was. The complete lack of a reaction was all the reaction Robb needed: Doran had plans for Tyrion, that much was now obvious. He might have even wanted to offer him to Cersei to ingratiate himself to the Crown.

By asking for Tyrion's custody, Robb had thwarted those plans. Tyrion being his prisoner and not Doran's gave him leverage on the scheming Dornish Prince. It was just a tiny bit of leverage, but leverage nonetheless.

After a long moment, Doran tried to counter: “Lord Tyrion was taken captive by my nieces...” he stated with a pensive expression.

“And then given to me,” Robb replied.

This time, Doran didn't respond. Robb decided to goad him a little more: “You keep asserting Dornish neutrality,” he reminded him, “what better way to demonstrate it than to let the quarrels between the Starks and the Lannisters remain between the Starks and the Lannisters?”

Doran still didn't answer. He kept his eyes locked on Robb's, each trying to gauge the other's true intentions.

_What will it be, Doran Martell?_ Robb thought. _Will you deny my request and show your true colors, or will you concede and lose a pawn?_

It took a long moment, but then Doran lowered his gaze with a sigh, leaning back in his chair. He then finally nodded: “Very well,” he said, “I will grant you your request.”

Robb managed not to make his answering smile too similar to a malicious smirk: “Thank you, Prince Doran.”

***

Trystane had just left, after almost half an hour of complaining. He had given Doran a massive headache. Well, no, that wasn't fair on his son: the headache was already there, Trystane had just made it bigger.

He had escorted Myrcella and Tyrion to the Princess' quarters, and had stayed as ‘moral support' for the conversation she had with her uncle, hoping to gain some useful information. Doran was thankful for the effort, less for all the complaining that came for it.

According to Trystane, Myrcella had started yelling as soon as the door of her room had closed behind them, and had grown even more enraged when Tyrion told her he understood where Robb Stark came from, calling his actions a mere consequence of what Joffrey had instigated. Myrcella had gone almost hysterical, saying she hadn't wanted to believe him a traitor until now, but that he had just proven her wrong. Then Tyrion had explained himself better, telling her of how Tywin Lannister had resorted to the lowest form of treachery to try and stop the Young Wolf, and then recounting all the things that Joffrey and Cersei had seemingly done to Robb Stark's sister.

Things that Trystane hadn't even wanted to repeat to his father, his face pale and disgusted.

They had heard rumors, of course. Joffrey's cruelty was famous all across Westeros. For Trystane, and for him, Tyrion's words had just served as confirmation. But for Myrcella, who had always tried her level best to avoid those rumors, being forced to accept the ugly truth had been too much.

At first, she had tried to deny. Again, she had called her uncle a liar, and a traitor, and had even slapped him. But Tyrion had just stared at her, his eyes never leaving hers.

Myrcella had finally capitulated, forced to face her family's cruelties, and had crashed to the floor, sobbing and crying.

That was where Trystane's complaints started. Myrcella had been inconsolable - rather understandably so, in Doran's personal opinion - and of course it would have looked bad if Trystane had left in the middle of her crisis. So he had been stuck there with the wailing Lannister, trying and failing to let her bawling get to his nerves.

He told his father that if the girl kept behaving like this, he didn't know if he could keep up appearances for as long as they needed. He said he had been tempted to gag her and hold her down until a maester could slip her some Essence of Nightshade.

Doran had admonished him never to say anything like that again. Trystane had a key role in his plans, and there was no gain without sacrifice. If they wanted to succeed, his son needed to get his act together and stop complaining.

And he needed to get used to the fickleness of a woman's heart. The Gods knew he would need that in the years to come, if they actually succeeded.

But all that would have to wait, because now Doran was faced with yet another problem.

Ellaria entered his solar with fire in her eyes, and started walking up to him as if she wanted to wring his neck.

Areo stepped in front of her in the middle of the room.

“Your weapons,” the Norvoshi commanded.

Ellaria glared at him, almost as if entertaining the idea of using said weapons right there and then. It took her nearly a full minute to reach for her waist and undo the belt holstering the twin daggers.

Doran eyed the two blades with a long look as Ellaria slammed the belt holding them against Areo's chest. It was the first time since Ellaria had returned to Dorne, that he had seen her taking them off.

Those daggers were important to her.

She had had them made right before departing with Oberyn and his three eldest daughters, intending to gift them to Tyene once they returned to Dorne. But things had gone awry, and she had never gotten the chance to give her present to her daughter. Which was probably the reason for her current state of mind.

“What are you doing?” she asked once she was past Aero and in front of him.

Doran felt bad for her. And for what he was about to do.

“Why don't you sit, Ellaria?” he told her, gesturing for a servant to bring them some wine.

The woman clenched her fists: “I asked you a question!” she yelled.

“And I told you to sit down,” Doran replied, this time more commanding. He knew she was suffering, but he would not be disrespected. He was suffering too.

Ellaria finally relented and plopped down on the seat in front of his desk right as the servant poured them two cups of wine.

He took his cup and drank. Ellaria just stared him down.

“Your indolence beggars belief,” she said after a long moment of looking at him in contempt, "your own brother was just murdered-"

“The trial,” Doran interrupted her, “were the odds fair?”

Ellaria’s left eye twitched: “Yes,” she was forced to admit.

“So it wasn't a murder,” Doran said, staring her down: “It was a defeat.”

“What difference does it make!?” Ellaria finally exploded, “he was killed by the same man who raped and murdered your sister and butchered her children twenty years ago! How can you just sit there drinking wine!?”

“I already told you I will travel to King's Landing tomorrow to discuss matters with King Tommen and the Queen Regent,” Doran calmly responded.

“Discuss matters?” Ellaria, scoffed, a disbelieving tone to her voice: “The Lannisters have been slaughtering your family for two decades now, and you still want to ‘discuss matters'? How many more Martells to they have to kill before you understand that we're long past diplomacy!?”

“And what other actions would you take?”

“Raise the banners and go to war!” Ellaria answered, spreading her arms to show how obvious she considered it: “The Lannisters are still reeling from the deaths of Tywin and Joffrey, they are vulnerable! And now we even have the Young Wolf on our side! If you attack-"

“I won't,” Doran interrupted her, staring her down.

Ellaria slowly rose from her seat, looming over him from across the desk. “My daughter,” she growled, _“Your brother's_ daughter. She could be dead, or wasting away in a Lannister cell! And I refuse to sit idly by as the Lannisters get away with another crime against Dorne!” she told him.

Doran didn't react beyond clenching his jaw. He tilted his head to one side: “And that is precisely why I am going to King's Landing personally. Tyene is my niece; I want her back as much as you do.”

“Somehow your course of action makes me doubt that,” Ellaria dissented. She leaned forward, as if to threaten him: “if you truly wanted her back, you would listen to me.”

“No, Ellaria. I won't listen to you precisely _because_ I truly want her back,” Doran retorted, holding her glare with his own: “You forget that your daughter was captured while blatantly committing treason against the Crown. If she is indeed still alive and I wage war on the Lannisters, how long do you think it would be before they put her head on a spike?”

“They wouldn't dare,” Ellaria disagreed, “We have Myrcella. They wouldn't hurt Tyene, if they value the life of their precious princess.”

Doran's eyes narrowed dangerously: “We don't hurt little girls here in Dorne,” he reminded her.

Ellaria's own eyes narrowed: “Even _Lannister_ girls?” she asked.

“Even Lannister girls,” Doran confirmed, “She is innocent of the crimes of her family.”

“In the same way your sister was innocent of the crimes of her husband's family?” Ellaria pressed, “The Lannisters didn't really care about that, did they?”

“So you would have me harm Myrcella in retaliation for Tyene?”

“Yes,” Ellaria hissed viciously, not even hesitating.

Doran leaned back in his chair, almost as if relaxing.

“Thank you, Ellaria,” the Prince said, “this does ease my conscience a little.”

She just stood there, the non-sequitur evidently taking the fight out of her.

“If Tyene is alive, I will need to bring something to the negotiations to have her back,” Doran explained, looking away from her: “I was hoping for it to be Tyrion Lannister's head, but Robb Stark claims the Imp is his prisoner. And the King in the North is unpredictable and has the potential to cause no end of trouble, so for now at least, antagonizing him is inadvisable. So I will have to bring Cersei something else.”

The woman's eyes narrowed in confusion.

“I am sorry, Ellaria, I truly am,” Doran said, and he even sounded sincere, “but Tyene has my blood. You do not. And there's no gain without sacrifice."

Ellaria's eyes bulged as she realized what the Prince meant. She heard the sound of a dagger being unsheated, but couldn't react quickly enough.

She could do nothing as Areo Hotah came up behind her and slit her throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just like in the show, Ellaria had come down with a bad case of Teh Stupidz disease, but Doran in this story actually has a plan instead of sitting on his ass all day doing literally nothing, so he nipped that shit right in the bud. Now, if you've read the books, you'd probably argue that he wouldn't just ruthlessly sacrifice his brother's paramour. Well... the thing is, he is in a pretty tough spot. He basically has to choose between Ellaria and Tyene. One of them is his niece; the other, when all is said and done, is just another of Oberyn's conquests. And yes, he doesn't know if Tyene is even still alive, but if he wants his long-term plans to come to fruition, he needs to be in the Crown's good graces... for now.
> 
> Make no mistake, Doran didn't like it. He actually meant it when he told Ellaria he was sorry, and he would never do that to actual blood relatives like his nieces, no matter what. But he is, most of all, a pragmatic man. He is not really evil, per se. He is, like Dorne itself, neutral and impartial. Like an earthquake. He kills good and bad alike, if the situation calls for it. And that meant, sadly, that Ellaria had to go.
> 
> Which begs the tantalizing question: now that Ellaria is gone... what happens with Obara and Nymeria???
> 
> On an unrelated note, Robb seems to be finally learning to play the Game.... though whether he can keep Tyrion as /his/ asset, away from Doran, remains to be seen.
> 
> Also, he and Myrcella will need to have a longer conversation.


	13. Snakes in the Sand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doran leaves Sunspear for King's Landing, but his nieces aren't following his script. Robb and Myrcella have another confrontation. In the Vale, Sansa makes new acquaintances.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fam, sorry for the delay. In my partial defense, this chapter is 1) the longest so far, and 2) a rather pivotal one, featuring a couple of plot twists. Including the Sand Snakes actually rubbing two brain cells together.

**Sunspear**

Obara Sand was no halfwit, but she would not call herself a great thinker, either.

She was built that way, she had always favoured action over words. She had always been more than happy to leave the words to Nymeria.

Nym was good with words. _Nym_ was the thinker among them, not her. Obara had always known and respected that.

And yet, right now, Obara was unable to stop her mind from ruminating, and reassessing, and _agonizing._

The last carriage in Doran's party had disappeared behind the dunes to the north of Sunspear hours ago, but Obara’s gaze kept trailing back to the spot where the tail end of the convoy had disappeared beyond the horizon.

She felt oddly off-kilter.

Her uncle had left in a hurry. Ever since the previous evening, Sunspear had been buzzing with feverish activity, everybody going about the preparations for the Prince's journey. There was a sort of nervous energy about it, as if Doran couldn't wait to be out and on the road. It was strange.

But even stranger, was that she hadn't managed to find Ellaria before their departure.

The day before, shortly after his meeting with Robb Stark, Doran had ordered their presence in his solar and had told them of his plans to go to King's Landing personally. Ellaria hadn't been happy, especially when Doran had all but ordered her to accompany him. Obara had wanted to go with them as well, but Doran had scathingly remarked that they had already done enough damage in King's Landing. He was bringing Ellaria along only because she was Tyene's mother, but she and Nymeria were to stay put until his return. He told them that if they kept causing trouble, the only place they would travel to would be Sunspear's dungeons.

Then he had dismissed them, telling Ellaria he wanted to speak to her again later that evening.

Obara had bitten her tongue, clenched her fists, and left. And that had been the last time she had seen Tyene's mother.

In the morrow, when she had come with Nymeria to see their uncle off, Ellaria was nowhere to be found. They had been told she was already in the carriages, but had not been allowed to see her. Then, before they could protest or even just ask why, the order had been given and the caravan had started to move out.

Something was not right. Ellaria would... _should_ have come to them before her departure. Obara had a bad feeling about this.

She tore her eyes away from the road to the north, and back to the palace behind her. Everything looked perfectly normal. Almost as if whatever had been off had just left with Doran and Ellaria.

Maybe she was just imagining things.

Ever since they were on the ship returning from King's Landing, she had been feeling off her game. Wrong-footed, in a sense. As if something important was amiss. At first she had chalked it up to her father's death, but she wasn't so sure anymore.

Father's death had been devastating. Never before had she felt such helplessness. One second he was winning, ready to exact his long-awaited revenge on Elia Martell's murderer, and the next he was dangling from a greatsword impaling him through the chest, right before her eyes. Her father, the invincible Red Viper, gone forever. Dead in an instant.

For the first two of the three weeks it had taken them to sail to Dorne, she had remained hidden in her cabin. She hadn't wanted Ellaria or her little sister to see the state she was in. She hadn't wanted to see the painful sympathy in Robb Stark’s eyes. And she hadn't wanted to see Tyrion Lannister at all. So she had locked herself in her room and raged silently, punching the wooden walls and furniture with tears in her eyes until the skin on all her knuckles had broken and all the fight had left her body.

And yet, once the grief had started to fade, the sheer definitiveness of it all had been almost soothing. Something she could accept. Strange as it was, there was some sort of closure in the finality of her father's fate.

Her _sister’s_ fate, on the other hand...

She had been together with Nym and Tyene for nearly half her life. They had played together, trained together, lived together. And now, one of them had just disappeared.

Nym had gone after the Young Wolf, Ellaria had been distracted and she had been carrying that accursed imp over her shoulder. In the confusion, Tyene had disappeared for a moment into the crowd, and then two Lannisters were holding her to the ground. The next thing she knew, more fleeing smallfolk had blocked her from view, and then her sister and the men holding her were nowhere to be seen.

There was nothing definitive about that.

They didn't even know if she was still alive.

Now Doran was traveling to King's Landing to find out... and Obara's mind went back to the original conundrum, making her sigh. She was going round and round in circles in her head, thinking and rethinking about it.

Why hadn't Ellaria come to them before leaving?

She shook her head. Maybe she was worrying for nothing...

...or maybe she should speak with Nymeria.

***

She found her sister in one of the inner terraces, sitting on a chair at the small table under the tent, her feet propped onto the next chair, legs crossed at the ankles. There was a fruit basket on the table, but Nymeria wasn't even looking at it. Her brow was furrowed, and her eyes were narrowed. She did that sometimes, thinking so hard that she seemed to exist in a different world.

Obara was tempted to get the jump on her and maybe get the second chair out from under her feet just to rile her up a bit, but this time it was better not to. When Nym was that deep in thought, it was usually over a very serious matter.

It could even be the same matter she had come to discuss.

So Obara just pulled out another chair on the other side of the table, and sat down, taking an apple from the basket and waiting for Nym to speak first.

When she did, Nymeria didn't even turn to face her: “Something is not right,” she simply said, eyes still narrowed in thought.

Obara didn't need to ask what she was talking about: so it _wasn't_ all just in her head.

“You’re talking about Ellaria,” she surmised.

Nymeria finally turned to face her, taking her feet off the second chair and fully turning her whole body towards her sister: "Doesn't it feel strange to you? How she went to see Doran last night and nobody saw her again afterwards?” Nym asked, “I spoke with the servants. Nobody has seen her since last night...”

“Perhaps she simply didn’t want to be bothered,” Obara offered, almost wanting Nymeria to assuage her worries: “She might very well have lost Tyene, maybe-"

“It's been three weeks, Obara,” her sister interrupted her: “Yes, while we were on the ship she had made herself scarce most of the time. We _all_ did, didn't we? But now...”

She didn't finish, letting out a long breath and shaking her head, leaving the last sentence open. If anything, that left Obara even more worried than she had been before coming to see her: “What are you saying?” she asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Something happened with her and Doran,” Nym concluded, leaning forward and lowering her voice: “Something that our dearest uncle doesn't want us to know.”

Obara looked down at the apple in her hands: all of a sudden, she had lost all her appetite: “Are you sure?” she insisted.

“You tell me,” Nym countered: “Ellaria goes to see Doran, and disappears. Therefore, Doran is the last one who has seen her, isn't he? And today, he leaves in all haste as if his behind is on fire. I think he is hiding something, don't you?”

Obara leaned back in her chair, sighing.

This was serious. More serious than she had originally thought.

“What do we do?” she asked after a long moment.

Nym lowered her gaze, also leaning back in her chair: “We need to find out exactly what's going on,” she answered.

***

Myrcella had not slept. She had cried until she had no tears left, and then she had lied awake on her bed until the morrow.

Her conversation with Uncle Tyrion the day before had been... well. It had certainly been _enlightening,_ much as Myrcella would have rather wished it hadn’t.

She should have known it couldn't all be slander from the war. Her family had always been... off. Myrcella had cried the day she had left King's Landing, but after arriving at Sunspear, and after experiencing what a _real_ family felt like, she never wanted to go back.

Joffrey was a cruel, spiteful boy. And Mother was a cold, conniving woman who only cared about power. Before, Myrcella had never known anything else, but now she could recognize them for what they were.

Yet, all of that was no one's business but her family’s. She could want something different for herself and still be loyal to the crown her brother wore.

All those filthy allegations about Mother and Uncle Jaime's... tastes, those were another matter entirely. Much as House Baratheon was not the most loved of the Great Houses, they were still the Royal Family. Perhaps not a _loving_ family, but that didn't give the Starks, the Greyjoys or her uncles Stannis and Renly any right to rebel against them!

That had been Myrcella's stance, right until yesterday. Right until her uncle Tyrion had delivered a ruthless, final blow to her already wavering house of cards.

Of course, in her heart, she already knew some of it. She remembered all too well Sansa Stark's uneasiness, her skittish behaviour and the badly concealed desperation in her eyes, as she walked the halls of the Red Keep like a condemned man walks towards the gallows. But Myrcella had been young back then, young and ignorant. And in her ignorance, she had convinced herself Sansa’s sadness derived from her family having betrayed the Crown.

Now, she knew better.

Now, Uncle Tyrion had opened her eyes to a reality that was impossible for her to unsee.

Joffrey had ordered Ned Stark's execution simply because he could. He had started a war, simply because he liked to play with the lives of his subjects.

And then, their grandfather had tried to win the war using the most abject strategy of them all: betrayal.

If Joffrey and Grandfather could be so ruthless and evil... was Robb Stark really in the wrong?

Were her uncles?

She shook her head, trying for the umpteenth time to clear it from those maddening thoughts.

A tremulous sigh forced its way out of her as she got ready for the day. While a part of her wanted nothing more than to go back to bed and hide from the entire world, she refused to let her recent, harrowing epiphany spoil her daily routine.

She asked for her breakfast to be brought to the main garden. Trystane had told her that he would be busy today, so she was going to eat alone. Maybe the tranquillity of the garden would ease her spirit.

But of course, it was not to be.

Of course, when she was trying her level best to not think about the war and just break her fast in peace and quiet, she had to find the Young Wolf sitting right there in the main garden to remind her of it all.

She spotted Robb Stark's beast first, before even exiting the corridor to the inner colonnade - how _couldn't_ she notice such a massive animal - and her mood was soured immediately.

The rogue Northerner was sitting at the center table, the wolf lying down next to its master and her uncle across from them. Tyrion had probably had her same idea, seeking peace in the garden as he broke his fast. Too bad he brought Robb Stark along.

She didn't know what they were speaking of, but Myrcella wondered why they couldn't do it somewhere else. Couldn't the man just stay in his quarters? Or take his overgrown dog down to the beach to play fetch? Couldn't he just _go away!?_

A couple of servants were leaving, after having cleaned the table they were sitting at, so they were probably finished already with their breakfast. A few more minutes and they would leave. Then she could have her own breakfast without having her morning entirely spoiled. She was just about to turn on her heels and return to her chambers, when Stark raised his eyes and saw her.

_Again: of course,_ she thought.

All of a sudden, she was overcome with the need to _not_ give him the satisfaction of seeing her retreat in front of him. She was conflicted about him, about his actions and motivation, but this man was still an enemy. And she would not give ground to her enemies.

So instead, she squared her shoulders and kept striding purposefully towards their table, her eyes locked with the Northerner in a silent challenge.

Tyrion, noticing the other man looking over his shoulder, turned to see her: “Myrcella,” he greeted in an awkward tone, “Well met, niece. We weren't expecting you...”

“I enjoy breaking my fast in the garden,” she replied in a piqued tone, “I wasn't expecting you either.”

“Ah, we were just enjoying the sun. Dorne has a beautiful climate...” Tyrion answered, evidently embarrassed and trying to keep the conversation as neutral as possible. Myrcella didn't care.

“It does,” she said in response, taking a seat next to her uncle. As she did, the wolf drew itself up in a sitting position, probably so he could see her better.

Myrcella had to suppress a shudder. That beast was bigger than it had any right to be.

“It's interesting, however” she said after making herself comfortable, her eyes still on the massive animal: "I was led to believe that wolves were more accustomed to cold weathers.” she continued, turning her gaze to Stark: "Perhaps you should visit the dungeons in the basement of the Palace, Lord Stark. I hear they are quite a bit colder than the upper floors. You would feel right at home.”

The other man was infuriatingly unperturbed by her dig: “Perhaps I will... if and when I am given leave to do so by someone who holds at least _some_ authority over this Palace,” he replied.

_Which you don't_ went unsaid, but Myrcella finished the phrase in her head nonetheless. She clenched her fists under the table ever so slightly. To Stark, she just gave a smile as false as his royal title.

She glanced at Tyrion. His brow was glistening with sweat and his eyes were moving frantically between her and Stark. Myrcella almost took pity on him. _Almost._

“Of course. Your pardon, Lord Stark, I forgot myself,” she drawled, “Given your current situation, I'm sure you pay special attention not to slight those who are housing you. They might take offence and boot you out.”

Stark cocked an eyebrow: “I _always_ endeavour not to slight my guests, regardless of my situation,” he fired back, something very closely resembling fury in his eyes: “It is probably the one thing all of us at this table have in common, is it not? I know from personal experience how particular House Lannister is about _guest rights.”_

Myrcella's eyes narrowed. She had heard all about that fateful night at the Twins and yes, the Red Wedding was a black stain on Tywin Lannister's memory. But while Stark had lost much to her brother's cruelty and her grandfather's treachery, that didn't give him the right to disrespect her.

“I am a _Baratheon,”_ she hissed, clenching her fists until her knuckles went white.

“Yes, of course,” Stark scoffed, his steely eyes piercing into her jade ones: “and I'm a Targaryen.”

That did it. Myrcella shot to her feet, her chair toppling to the ground behind her. At the outburst, Tyrion seemed to almost jump out of his skin in fear - probably fear for _her_ continued wellbeing more than his own - but she didn't care.

And Stark didn't really seem to care either: he didn't move a finger, nor a muscle on his face, merely raising his chin to keep his eyes locked in hers.

“You don't get to judge me!” myrcella hissed in a dangerous tone: “You claim to fight for justice? That yours is the most righteous cause!? I have heard the stories, the songs about the ‘invincible Young Wolf’ roaming the Riverlands and slaughtering every Lannister soldier he could find! How many did you kill between the Twins and the Capital, instead of simply riding for King's Landing immediately, to get your oh so desired revenge? How many lives did you end, that had nothing to do with the death of your family!?”

“Less than those who died in a single night at the Twins on Tywin Lannister's orders,” the Young Wolf responded.

The answer was delivered in such an infuriatingly sedated voice, in such a calm, conversational manner, that Myrcella was left utterly speechless. She felt her hands starting to tremble in rage and frustration: rage, because this hateful man before her was unflappable as marble, and frustration, because deep in her heart, she knew he was _right._

Joffrey had started the war. Grandfather had tried to win it through betrayal, lies and deceit. There was no denying any of that anymore. And yet, she refused to believe it was all her family's fault.

She had to take a deep breath before she could speak again with a voice that could remotely pass for steady.

“My grandfather's vile strategies and my brother's cruelty deserved their reckoning,” she conceded, a little softer than before, despite herself. She _wanted_ to be enraged, but it was growing increasingly difficult. At this point, all she wanted was to _understand:_ “But everyone else? What were the sins of all those soldiers in the Riverlands? Of the City Watch of King's Landing? Of my uncle Jaime?”

For a moment, absolute silence reigned in the garden.

Myrcella had only spoken the name as an afterthought, but at the mention of Jaime, something dark and terrible flashed in the Young Wolf's eyes: now, he looked absolutely murderous. Over the table, his hands were clenched into fists, just like her own.

Myrcella's gaze briefly registered Tyrion blanching and going stiff. He looked like he was ready to bolt and run for his life, but he didn't dare move, or utter word.

When Robb Stark spoke, his voice was so menacing that Myrcella's palms started to sweat.

“You ask me of your so-called _uncle’s_ sins?” he demanded, furious like Myrcella had never seen anyone in her life, as he slowly rose from his seat: “Very well then. Let me recount some of Ser Jaime Lannister's greatest deeds in the last few years for you.”

Tyrion made one last, desperate attempt to calm him down: “Robb,” he started, grabbing the other man's wrist. But Stark was having none of it, tugging his arm free without even looking her uncle's way.

“Tell me, Princess,” he growled, pushing his chair back and slowly starting to walk around to their side of the table: “During your time in King's Landing, have you ever met a cousin of yours, by the name Ser Alton Lannister?” he asked then, as he came to a stop two feet from her, towering over her with that murderous glare still on his face.

The non-sequitur left Myrcella dumbfounded. She didn't understand... what did this have to do with her uncle Jaime?

She blinked twice in confusion and looked at Tyrion, who all of a sudden seemed to have realized something, but also seemed too scared or embarrassed to speak.

She had never heard of an Alton Lannister, but the Young Wolf's tone demanded an answer.

“N-no... No, I... I haven't,” she eventually stammered.

“You haven't...” Stark repeated almost to himself, nodding in acknowledgement, before going on: “Another man I am almost sure you have never met is Torrhen Karstark, a distant cousin of mine. Do you know him?” he asked then.

Myrcella just shook her head, her eyes still wide with fear.

What was the Young Wolf getting at?

“No, of course you don't. Torrhen was at Karhold with his family when you rode North with King Robert. But I _do_ remember you meeting my brother Bran at Winterfell. Do you remember him?”

Myrcella did. Of course, she did. What had happened to Robb's brother had been a terrible tragedy... But what did it have to do with her uncle?

“Robb, please,” Tyrion tried once again, but this time, the Young Wolf silenced him with a single glare. A glare that promised the worst kind of retribution if Tyrion so much as dared to speak again. Even Myrcella gulped in fear, despite the glare not being addressed to her. Then Stark once again turned to face her, raising an eyebrow in expectation.

“I do,” she said, still not understanding the riddle and still scared by Robb's aggressive demeanor.

The Northerner crossed his arms over his chest: “So we have two men that you have never met, and a boy you met once,” he said through gritted teeth: “Do you know what they all have in common?”

Myrcella couldn't even find her voice. She merely shook her head in denial, her eyes wide with fear.

“Let’s start with Alton Lannister,” Robb growled: “Captured at the Whispering Wood and held prisoner by the Northern Army, together with your _beloved Uncle Jaime,”_ he hissed. Myrcella felt a shiver down her spine at the venom that had laced the Young Wolf's last three words.

“Unfortunately, the Kingslayer did not fancy his status as a war prisoner nearly as much as his position as a member of the Kingsguard, and decided to try and escape captivity,” Robb continued, “All he needed was a diversion... and the sudden death of a fellow prisoner would do the job marvelously.”

Myrcella swallowed past a sudden knot in her throat.

“Jaime Lannister attacked his own cousin and brutally murdered him without a second thought, before anyone could even notice,” Robb hissed, raising an eyebrow in contempt: “He went from Kingslayer to _kin_slayer, but I guess it didn't really matter. After all, he had created his distraction.”

Myrcella’s eyes were as wide as they could be. No, it had to be a lie... A vile, vicious lie...

“Which brings us to Torrhen Karstark,” Robb continued implacably: “Torrhen had already lost his brother Harrion to the Kingslayer's sword at the Whispering Wood, and he had been charged with guarding the prisoners. I wasn't there myself to witness it, but I'm figuring that as Ser Alton was having his skull bashed in, Torrhen heard the commotion, perhaps even saw some of it, so he opened the cell and rushed inside, only to find Ser Alton already dead on the ground. Sadly, that is where Torrhen’s story also ends, because after having killed Torrhen’s brother on the battlefield, and after killing his own cousin in their cell, your dearest _uncle_ killed another one of mine as well. Ambushed him from behind, like a coward, and used the chains binding his wrists to strangle him.”

Myrcella's breath had grown labored during Stark's terrible tale. Her eyes wide open and her mouth agape, she stared desperately into Robb's own eyes, trying to see a hint of insincerity. But there wasn't any; only anger.

And Robb was far from finished.

“But all of this _pales_ in comparison to Jaime Lannister's deeds in Winterfell. We mentioned my brother Bran, remember?” the King in the North pressed on, now with a small smile full of contempt: “You remember his accident, don't you, Princess? How the fall broke his back and very nearly killed him? How King Robert had to delay his departure from Winterfell because his new Hand's second son was barely clinging to life?”

Myrcella swallowed again, her bottom lip starting to tremble as she closed her mouth. Was Stark implying-

“Well, that accident had been no accident at all. Bran did not fall from the Broken Tower, he was _thrown,”_ he hissed viciously, bowing slightly to bring his face closer to hers, but still towering over her: “Can you hazard a guess on whose hand it was to break guest rights by pushing my little brother from a window, crippling him and nearly taking his life?”

“No,” Myrcella breathed, finally finding a shard of voice, “You are lying-”

“How noble and brave of the Kingslayer,” Robb gritted, not even acknowledging her speaking: “a knight of the Kingsguard against a boy of ten. A man who swore an oath to protect the innocent, sending a child to his doom. Then again, that's not the only oath he has broken...”

“Liar!” Myrcella finally exclaimed, albeit weakly and brokenly, her eyes shiny with tears: “Why would Uncle Jaime do that? Why would he attack a child, completely unprovoked?”

Robb scoffed, almost looking like he wanted to laugh in her face: “I've just told you why: ‘Protect the innocent’ is _far_ from being the only oath Jaime Lannister has ever broken. The Knights of the Kingsguard are sworn to celibacy, are they not?”

Myrcella’s mouth dropped open in shock once again.

“Indeed,” Robb nodded, seeing the realization in her eyes: “My brother had seen what he shouldn't have. Ser Jaime and his sister the Queen, hidden together in an abandoned tower, rutting like animals away from prying eyes.”

“No-"

_“Yes._ But nobody had to know, of course. So my brother had to die. My little brother had to die, because he had stumbled upon your wretched _father_ trying to spurt another little bastard into your mother's c-"

The slap that struck him across his face sounded lout like the crack of a whip. But Stark didn't even turn his head. He stopped mid-word, but only to raise a placating hand towards his wolf.

Myrcella hadn't even noticed the beast leap to its feet when she had struck its master. Still, even now that she had, she simply didn't care.

For if that wolf pounced on her and went for her neck, at least her turmoil would end. But the wolf didn't move, heeding its master's command. It looked at her almost in warning, not growling or showing its teeth, but keeping its yellow eyes fixed on hers, almost daring her to raise a hand on Robb Stark again.

She didn't return the wolf's glare. Tears were streaming freely down her cheeks now, but she held Robb's gaze still.

“You are a monster,” she whimpered, anger and desperation seeping in equal parts into her voice.

“Aye, I am a monster,” the Young Wolf replied, his own voice sharp and cold as ice: “because your family turned me into one.”

She couldn't take anything more. Shoulders hunched and head hung low, Myrcella turned on her heels and left, any thoughts of breakfast throrughly forgotten, and her anguished sobs the only sounds breaking the silence.

As she retreated, she heard an exchange behind her.

“A little harsher than necessary,” Tyrion murmured, having finally found the courage to speak.

“It’s called ‘war’, Lannister,” Robb Stark replied.

Now, the Young Wolf's voice held none of the fury it held before. Only sadness and weariness.

**The High Road**

Brienne of Tarth was not a happy woman.

Finding Arya Stark, alive and well, only to lose her immediately afterwards had been immensely frustrating. She had been so crossed with Podrick, she had barely spoken to him for nearly a fortnight after the fact.

She had almost convinced Arya to come with her when Sandor Clegane, that roasted maggot, got in the way asking who she worked for. And right then, Podrick had foolishly blurted out that Tyrion Lannister had sent them. Which wasn't _un_true; Podrick was serving Lord Tyrion and Brienne was doing this - at least in part - for Ser Jaime... but clearly, the green squire was not very familiar with the word ‘tactful'.

The Starks hated the Lannisters with a passion, understandably so. Joffrey had decapitated Arya's father, imprisoned her sister and forced her to go on the run. So maybe, ‘the Lannister brothers sent us to fetch you' wasn't the best introduction.

A fight had ensued, and if she was at all honest with herself, Brienne had rather enjoyed the outcome. The Hound was feared in all the Seven Kingdoms, almost as much as his brother the Mountain. It had felt good to defeat him and put an end to Joffrey's dog.

But while she was fighting the Hound, Arya had managed to run off unseen. Unseen because Podrick was too busy staring at her and Clegane's clash like a mouth-breathing moron to keep an eye on the girl.

All their attempts to find her again had been for naught, and that had frustrated Brienne to no end. They were now at an inn, heading for the Erye. She hoped Podrick was right at least in his intuition that Sansa Stark had been taken there.

Brienne was starting to doubt it. Podrick hadn't been very reliable as of late.

“My Lady?”

The squire's voice brought her out of her musings: “What is it?” she asked distractedly.

“Sansa Stark.”

Brienne's head almost snapped in the direction Pod’s eyes were trained. “Don't look!” the squire warned hushedly.

“Are you sure?” she inquired instead, suddenly alert.

“She's dyed her hair, but it's her,” Podrick replied, fully convinced: “She's sitting with Petyr Baelish.”

“Littlefinger!?” Brienne hissed. The man who had stolen Sansa away from the Capital and framed Lord Tyrion for it... Of course he wouldn't let his prey out of his sight.

This complicated things.

“A bunch of knights with them,” Pod relayed then.

“A bunch?” Brienne spluttered, “What's a _bunch?_ Six? Twenty!?”

“Ten, I think...” Pod replied flustered, “Too many... My Lady, I don't think this is-"

“Get up slowly,” Brienne told him, “don't make it look like you're on your guard.”

“My Lady, is it wise to approach them now?” Pod argued, “We don't know what lies Littlefinger fed her!”

“We'll find out soon enough,” Brienne replied calmly, raising from her seat. Pod did the same, then he took a deep, centering breath and started to move towards the table where Lady Sansa and Littlefinger were seated. Brienne stopped him, grabbing his arm as he passed her.

“Don’t antagonize Littlefinger or say a word about Lord Tyrion's imprisonment,” she warned him.

“But My Lady-"

“We can't afford to look hostile!” Brienne hissed in explanation, “Remember what happened with Arya!”

Pod's cheeks flushed in embarrassment, but he conceded.

Brienne reassured him: “We'll tell Lady Sansa the whole truth when we can speak to her alone. There's too many ears and _far too many swords_ in this inn.”

Pod nodded in agreement. Brienne turned, and together they made their way to Lady Catelyn's daughter.

One ot the knights guarding her and Baelish stopped them: “That's far enough,” he said, raising his hand, and immediately all the others turned to her, hands to their sword hilts. Brienne immediately recognized the colors of House Arryn on their armour: Knights of the Vale.

“Lord Baelish,” Brienne called, “Lady Sansa. My name is Brienne of Tarth-"

“We've met. With Renly Baratheon” Littlefinger promptly interrupted her, “What did he say about you? He said... your loyalty came free of charge.”

Brienne simply nodded once, slowly.

“Someone appears to have paid quite a bit for it since then...” Baelish continued.

This time Brienne did not reply, but Baelish gestured to the knights to let her pass nonetheless.

“Lady Sansa,” Brienne called once she was at her side: “Before your mother's death, I was her sworn sword. I gave my word I would find you and protect you.”

“You were Catelyn Stark's sword sword?” Littlefinger asked, interrupting her again.

“I was,” Brienne reiterated.

“Strange,” Littlefinger mused, “I knew Cat since the time we children. She never mentioned you.”

“It was after Renly's murder,” Brienne explained.

“Ah, yes,” Littlefinger once more interrupted her, feigning remembrance: “You were accused of killing him.”

“I tried to save him!” Brienne defended.

“But you were accused,” Littlefinger insisted.

Brienne didn't know what to reply. She knew if she told him of the shadow with Stannis' face she would just play into his hands and make Sansa even more distrustful than she already appeared to be. Littlefinger was good at swaying people, she would give him that.

“This woman swore to protect Renly, she failed. She swore to protect your mother, _she failed,”_ Baelish told Sansa, who seemed to agree with him more with every word that came out of his mouth. Brienne's frustration was rearing its head with a vengeance.

“Why would I want somebody with your history of failure guarding Lady Sansa?” Littlefinger then asked her.

She answered his question with another question: “Why would you have any saying in her affairs?”

“Because I am her uncle,” he countered, stunning Brienne.

_What?_

“I married her aunt Lysa, shortly before my beloved's untimely death,” Baelish explained, “We're family now. And you are an outsider.”

Brienne was at a loss for words. How could she salvage this situation?

“Lady Sansa, we might be outsiders, but Tyrion Lannister is not!”

Brienne had to refrain herself from decking Podrick right there where he stood to shut him up. She could have sworn she had specifically told him - instants ago - to _not_ mention Lord Tyrion before they could speak to Sansa in private.

Her hand went automatically to the hilt of her sword as the knights surrounding her looked ready to attack. This was about to get nasty...

“We have a message from Lord Tyrion,” Podrick continued.

Brienne was left stunned as she turned to her squire.

_What? A message!?_

This was new... Podrick had never mentioned this...

She opened her mouth, not even sure what to say, but Podrick was already fumbling with his jerkin. After a little rummaging, he produced a sealed leather wallet and made to hand it to Sansa. He moved a little too quickly, for one of the knights snatched his wrist and stopped him.

“It’s alright, he assured, “only a letter is inside...”

With a suspicious glare, the knight took the wallet from Pod's hand and cut off the stitching with a dagger. Sure enough, inside was nothing but a letter with a Lannister wax seal.

The knight wordlessly passed the letter to Sansa, who took it confusedly.

Littlefinger tried to intervene: “Sansa, may I-”

“It's meant for me, Lord Baelish,” Sansa interrupted him. Brienne couldn't hold a satisfied smirk.

Sansa broke the wax seal and read the letter. From her vantage, Brienne could have read it. She knew it was not her place, but despite herself, curiosity got the better of her.

_Sansa,_

_And now my watch begins._

_Podrick Payne is my squire. He was with me at the Blackwater and will keep you safe when I can't. I trust him with my life, you can do the same._

_Tyrion._

Brienne waited with bated breath. If this letter couldn't convince Sansa, nothing could.

Slowly, the girl rose her head, the small parchment still in her hands, resting on her lap: “I trust Lord Tyrion,” she decided, “And he trusted them. That is enough for me.”

"How do we know it's really Lord Tyrion who sent them?" Littlefinger asked.

Sansa showed him the letter: "Tyrion wrote: 'And now my watch begins'. It's what he said to me on our wedding night," she explained, "when he refused to bed me on his father's orders."

Brienne broke into a smile. Littlefinger seemed about to argue some more, but she didn't leave him the time to do so. She wasted no time kneeling next to Sansa's seat: “Lady Sansa,” she started solemnly, “My sword is yours. I will shield your back and keep your counsel, and give my life for yours if need be. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Sansa Stark turned slightly towards her. Her eyes were shining of a beautiful light: “And I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, and meat and mead at my table. And I pledge to ask no service of you that might bring you dishonor. I swear it by the Old Gods and the New.”

Brienne couldn't help but take a relieved breath.

“Arise,” Sansa told her.

She did, and saw that Littlefinger looked like he had swallowed a particularly nasty insect. But he didn't argue any further.

As they prepared to leave the inn, Brienne rounded on Pod.

“You didn't think it useful to inform me of Tyrion Lannister's letter?” she asked. Pod, bless his soul, started to splutter.

Brienne smiled at him: “Well done, Pod.”

He immediately relaxed, smiling back: “Thank you, My Lady.”

_Sunspear_

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Obara asked in a hushed voice as they tied the rope to the edge of the roof. Both were clad in all black silks, to become one with the darkness of the night.

Nym took a deep breath: “No,” she admitted, “but we need answers, and I don't see another way to get them.”

Obara still looked conflicted, but nodded anyway.

“Don’t fret, sister,” Nym reassured her, “it's not the first time we sneak into Doran's solar, is it?”

Obara gave her an oblique look: “the last time we hadn't seen fifteen namedays between the two of us,” she reminded her, “and we were _caught.”_

“We got better since then,” Nym offered. Obara just gave her an exhasperated sigh.

The plan was simple: with the favour of darkness, they would infiltrate Doran's solar and look for clues on whatever was going on with him and Ellaria. Nym would enter from a window that overlooked the sea, while Obara would remain on the roof to alert her if anything went wrong.

Once the rope was secured, Nym wasted no time in lowering herself to the window. It was closed, of course, but she made quick work of the bolts with her dagger.

She moved inside the solar, swift and silent as a shadow.

The desk was the first thing she inspected. There were various parchments, shippings of various goods, all kinds of relations and reports from all over Dorne, and a letter from a Pentoshi magister about an unspecified agreement with House Martell. Reading all those parchments using only the feeble light of the moon that filtered from the window hurt her eyes, and she found nothing of use. Nothing that told her anything about Ellaria.

She moved on to inspect the two closets lining the walls, then looked behind the drapes, but there was nothing of interest there either. She spent a lot of time searching every nook and cranny of the room, but found nothing.

She didn't like it, but maybe this time she had to admit defeat.

She sighed, leaning on the left wall. And that was when she felt it.

Right under her left foot. One of the floorboards was loose.

She stomped lightly with her foot to be sure. The board didn't make any noise, but it moved, if only by a hair.

Interesting...

She unsheated her dagger once more and used it to lift the moving board. Sure enough, underneath was a shallow compartment, and in it...

...Tyene's daggers?

She frowned as she picked up the twin weapons. They were held in scabbards attached to a leather belt. She moved closer to the window, to examine them better. When she did, her eyes widened in realization. The two snakes intertwined forming the hilts and quillons, the wavy pattern of the blades...

The daggers she was holding were not Tyene's. They were meant for her, but she had never received them.

They were the daggers Ellaria had commissioned before their departure for King's Landing. The daggers she had intended to gift to Tyene in celebration of their vengeance against the Lannisters.

The daggers she had never taken off after Tyene had been captured.

What were Ellaria's daggers doing under a board in Doran's floor?

Nymeria raised her head, looking out of the window. Ellaria would _never_ have left those daggers behind as they left for King's Landing to hopefully retrieve Tyene.

Something had happened to her. Something bad.

Doran was hiding more than just two daggers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaand cut.
> 
> So, first things first: this was not what I meanst when I said Robb and Myrcella needed to have a longer conversation. That still needs to happen. But... Myrcella pushed the Jaime button. She shouldn't 'a did that.
> 
> Was Robb an asshole there? Definitely. Would he have been such an asshole in different circumstances? Probably not. Is he going to apologize eventually? Maybe in the long run, when his life doesn't suck so badly anymore.
> 
> On the other hand: did Myrcella have any ground to stand on whatsoever when she started telling him off? Fuck no.
> 
> Also: the more eagle-eyed readers may have noticed that while Robb was educating Myrcella on all the reasons why Jaime sucks, he only mentions Harrion Karstark in passing, and never brings up Jory Cassel. The latter in particular is kind of significant since he is Jaime's first onscreen kill, and happens in the context of Ned getting a spear through his leg. However, Harrion was killed on the battlefield, so Robb is (kind of) giving Jaime a pass for that one - war is war, after all. As for Jory, it's never established if Robb knows that it was Jaime himself who killed him. That's also kind of the reason why he doesn't mention the ambush on his father in the streets at all: he doesn't know all the details.
> 
> On an unrelated note, we are starting to throw wrenches in Littlefinger's plans. Such is the power of giving Podrick and Brienne a letter that actually explains things instead of a Lannister sword reforged from a stolen Stark one.
> 
> On another unrelated note: while I was rewriting the Dorne plot, I kind of debated a lot with myself on Nymeria doing her best ninja impression and finding Tyene's daggers. But it's actually a repurposed plot device from the books: Arianne Martell (Doran's eldest daughter who was cut from the show) comes across a letter that Doran had written to his son Quentyn (Arianne and Trystane's brother, also cut from the show). Without spoilering the books for those who haven't read it, Arianne gets a wrong impression and that causes a fair amount of trouble. Next chapter, we'll see what kind of impression Nym and Obara will get from their own findings.
> 
> Anyways, that's all for this chapter. Let me know what you think of the new and hopefully improved Snad Snakes, and I'll see you again on Chapter 14!


End file.
